


'till the moon slips away (I'm hopin' all you're dreamin' comes true)

by schrijver



Category: Maleficent (Disney Movies)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drama & Romance, Duelling, F/M, Gen, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Mating Rituals, Pining, Post-Canon, Soul Bond, The Author Regrets Nothing, Traditions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:55:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 46,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21591850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schrijver/pseuds/schrijver
Summary: Maleficent is forced to deal with feelings buried long ago when Diaval confesses his feelings for her.It gets worse when she finds out that, according to the Dark Fae people, Diaval is already her mate, and the soul bond they share is the strongest ever felt in centuries.
Relationships: Aurora & Diaval (Disney), Aurora & Maleficent (Disney), Aurora/Phillip (Disney), Diaval/Maleficent (Disney)
Comments: 86
Kudos: 469





	1. Ah love is gonna fly on the wind

**Author's Note:**

> I watched the "Mistress of Evil" movie on the day it was out and . . . I hated it. Which shouldn't be a surprise to me, I mean, I didn't even like the first movie! 
> 
> *sighs* 
> 
> Won't give my reasons because the list would be too long, so anyway, I felt like the new material could be used for something. Consider this my way of dealing with things. Sorry for any typos --- non-native English speaker here. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

  
  


* * *

After rain comes the lull, or at least that's what human verses say through songs, tales or fables they insisted on telling for generations to come—a custom they learned from the Dark Faes, Maleficent was to learn later, and hence such 'fairy tales' became so common in the mouths of the poor that not even the nobles could ignore them. From scaring adventures to impossible romances—all in themselves captivating enough to survive the ages. Maleficent knew that her own life would be adapted to each century's view of what was proper, what was good, what was wrong and what was ultimately evil.

The Dark Fae wouldn't let her tale to be lost to convenience, however. They were nothing like humans. They were once friends and guardians to villagers, godparents to children, providers to the weak and alone and abandoned, and the lessons of hospitality were taught from them. But humans resemble parasites that cause the worst calamities, and multiply as insects, as adaptable as reptiles, and they destroy the nature that is kind to them as grasshoppers destroy the wheat on the fields, and they betray each other without thinking, unlike the dogs they seem to be so fond and that are so loyal to their owners, and they kill with the mercy a starved lion would to a fat prey after hours of hunting.

And the Dark Fae fell ill because of them, and reached near annihilation—betrayed by those whom they so loved before anyone else.

To survive, the Dark Fae took the pain and death and molded it to their will, shaping it as the iron is by the heat of the forge. They became tribal as humans once were, and nested in the four corners of the world, and adapted to snow in the mountains, to the scalding sun of the desert, to the rain of the jungle, and the echoes of the forest—living inside hidden caves as the world that had once been theirs now belonged to the humans they had once saved.

Dangerous those Dark Fae became, as abrupt as the good willed thoughts any human might had of them. Peace was replaced by war and then blood and suffering and darkness.

For three centuries the Dark Fae hid, for decades they planned on their return and for three days a war was raged on. On the night following their last battle, the Dark Fae returned to the cave they held home to celebrate as their ancestors once did. Following one out of many ancient traditions, a large animal was sacrificed in honour of the one whose bravery and power had brought joy to the people. The animal in question had been an ox, cooked into a very strong stew and served to the guests. The Dark Fae would reunite themselves on Sanctuary—a semi-circular, curved bank of seats. Below them, in the centre, a level circular area in which a large bonfire was lit—directly beyond to the right, a Tundra Fae of name Udo was surrounded by little ones of many different ages, barely stopping in their seats as they listened to the tale of the guest of honour, the one the celebrations were dedicated to, the one to win the war and bring peace—the Phoenix Reborn—Maleficent of the Moors.

_"Mistress of All Evil"_ was as she was known to humans, a result to Ingrith's efforts. Despite the horrors Ingrith herself had committed, it was expected that humans wouldn't admit that one of their own had been a monster capable of destroying anything to prove a point. Ingrith was obsessed and that was her downfall.

It had almost been Maleficent's, too, and it irritated her to know that she shared so many similarities with the former queen.

_"We must kill them all!"_

Shrike, a Jungle Fae, impersonated each character dramatically, and as she proceeded to mimic Queen Ingrith's pompousness, a collective laugh was heard around the bonfire. The Dark Fae were wild yet exceedingly welcoming. They would give great value to moments in which all would gather themselves around the fire and listen to stories—a favourite pastime to the little ones, as well.

Maleficent allowed herself to watch in new fond affection as the events of her life were summarized on a _play_ —Diaval had explained how such were common among humans, and as humans traditions had been learned from the Dark Fae, then this was to be just one of them.

Mistress and servant sat side by side, closest to the bonfire than anyone was allowed, the noblest place to be given to a fae, according to their ever so surprising traditions. Since the celebrations were in the name of her deeds, Maleficent chose not to argue over such odd notions, for it seemed easier to go along the traditions of her people to later try to understand them. She had no wish to disrespect them, and she knew that she could easily do so given few words spoken inappropriately to her, or maybe for no reason at all, taking how inept she was to understand social interactions, even if they were from her own kind.

So far, no incidents willing to test her temper. The _play_ had been rather amusing and the little ones seem to enjoy it very much. Maleficent refused to ruin their joy over a sense of disarray for traditions she failed to grasp.

"The Dark Phoenix embraced Sleeping Beauty with her wings—" Udo spread his own white wings, having in his arms one of the little ones, a girl who resembled Aurora by her blond hair, and whirling her in the air to later hug her to his chest protectively. The girl, along with the other little ones, laughed out loud, enjoying all the attention, "—and fell to the ground!"

Udo closed his wings, creating a wind curtain that met the children's astonished gasps. Their eyes were wide, attentive and curious.

"What happened then, Udo?", "Was she hurt?", "Where did she fell?" the children asked eagerly.

"The Dark Phoenix laid across the garden—" Udo went on with his tale, "—and soldiers and warriors stood there in the battlefield, shocked and frightened and silent . . . " Udo opened his wings, revealing the little girl safe in his arms, and those who were not paying attention were forced to, "But Sleeping Beauty was alive! The Dark Phoenix saved her!"

And the children celebrated. Udo smiled openly at their joy, and allowed the little girl in his arms to return to her siblings and friends.

"What happened to the Queen, Udo?" asked one of the little ones, the smallest, his voice as shy as his own self.

Udo sat down on the floor with the little ones, his robes forming a circle around him. The openness had the little boy who made the question to sit on his lap, and the other children shifted closer to him as well, and he spread his wings on instinct as to have the other little ones resting under his protection.

"The Queen was defeated," Udo then looked at Borra, who also participated in the night of stories, "Borra and I went to her for justice, as tradition demands."

Shrike placed crown of flowers on her head, and raised her chin. She pressed a forefinger to Borra's chest, faking an authoritarian voice, "You cannot hurt me, you fiend! I'm the Queen of Ulstead! You cannot touch me!"

"Silence, human!" Borra snapped at her, and Shrike pretended to fall on her knees, her body shaking exaggeratedly. Her wings covered her body to demonstrate her position of fragility and she would beg in a shaky voice, "No, please, have mercy!"

The children, very much like their parents and any other expectants, laughed at Shrike's dramatizations. Maleficent would limit her reactions to a slight shake of head, a smile taking over her lips nonetheless.

"And what did you do to her, Udo?" asked one of the children, "Did you kill her?"

Udo shook his head, "No. Tradition dictates the most powerful fae to choose her punishment—" he paused and turned his gaze to Maleficent, who felt slightly unnerved before the eyes of the many little ones who were now staring at her with an admiration and acceptance that she would never get used to. But what could she do against them? It had been a lie all along—she absolutely loved children.

She simply didn't know how to act around them.

"—which means that the Dark Phoenix chose to turn the Queen into a goat."

There was a two to three seconds of silence, until the children finally understood what had been told them . . .

. . . and then started to ask many questions.

"A goat?!" then "She can turn humans into animals?" then "Can she turn me into a lion?"

Udo laughed, "Why, I'm told the Dark Phoenix turned Diaval, who was born a raven, into a wolf, a horse, and even a dragon!"

"And a bear!" Diaval exclaimed proudly from his seat, "Do not forget the bear!"

The children were amazed, "Diaval! Diaval! Diaval!" they shouted, and many got up, including the little one sitting on Udo's lap, and literally flew to him. Diaval barked laughs, many little ones on top of him asking so many questions he could never answer because he couldn't understand half of them. Some asked him to turn into different animals, others asked him to turn into a phoenix so they could ride on his back.

But Diaval depended on Maleficent's magic and will, that none of that would do. She simply watched as there were so many little ones jumping on Diaval, as her servant managed to hold two in his arms at the same time. He has always been extremely good with little ones, and would never mind their unreserved attention.

"A little aid, mistress?" Maleficent heard Diaval plead, and no real despair came from him.

And his mistress, understanding his proposal, failed to contain a smile.

"Into a lion."

And her golden magic left her fingers, and went to Diaval, who from man became a lion of dark fur and a pompous mane.

"Big kitty!" the smallest of the children gasped in delight and Maleficent’s laugh sounded glorious and open and free, and her heart was filled with a familiar flame she hadn't been brave to know for a long time.

* * *

Night progressed so diverse and unlike anything Maleficent could imagine, yet equally delicious, far simpler than the strange human costumes she had faced at Aurora and Philip's castle. Faes were creatures of improvisation and creativity, which was by necessity, since they had no free access to magic the way Maleficent always had. Everything she ever needed, her imagination would take care of. Nature knelt before her power, and even though it took her a few years to learn how to master such ability, it had always been absurdly natural to her, like the breathing of a baby when born.

As for her people, life was never easy, and so they improvised. Tunics and armour were made out of leather and cooper, utensils and tools made of clay and wood and rock. Their nests were birdlike, stuffed in fur and leather and wool—immensely large and filled of all sorts of things. Faes liked to collect trinkets to decorate their nests with, and so when someone would visit them, they would share the stories behind such peculiar objects. It was also a way of courting a potential mate—by offering them trinkets they might like. Mated pairs attach to their clothing whatever might remind them of their mates—a female fae, if mated to a warrior, would carry a shiv (crafted by her mate) under her belt, or wear a bracelet made of the same material her mate's armour was.

In true, those trinkets could be pretty much anything, as each trinket spoke volumes of the fae who wore them.

Take Udo as an example, wearing long silky robes, always white like his hair and wings, reflecting the softness of his personality and making him so approachable to the little ones who simply worshipped his stories—he was one of the wiser males of the clan, and the kindest of them. Maleficent was not surprised to learn that four of the little ones there hearing of his stories were, in fact, Udo's own children.

Shrike, however, was much wilder, her dark skin painted in red, her arms covered with the typical marks of the wars she fought—she was a warrior, fearless and perhaps a little reckless, strong-headed and fair-eyed. She was so adored by the little ones for her victories, and didn't mind sharing them—it amazed Maleficent that such an aggressive warrior showed such patience with little ones.

Maleficent was so much more practical when she was young, wearing jewellery made out of the simplest things: from tree branches to rocks found by the river. After the betrayal, after the curse, she grew cold and her depression was the black of her robes. She was left with a cloak of night, her skin like the moon, lips like the rose that was blooming at dawn. Her long hair, always loose in the wind, was bound by snake skin, her shoulders adorned with claws of black and brown bears, and trailing where her wings had once been—covering her body like a sea of feathers—was a velvet cloak. On her hand, a staff to hold her steady and controlled the magic that had become unstable due to her emotional state, and to secure her aim—holding memories of her curse.

The dark tones she did not abandon, not even after the return of her wings, and small bird skulls adorned the rings on her fingers, a staff resembled her own horns, and dark feathers tied to her hair, now falling down her back in long, dark brown trances. Ravens were the thought when dressing herself—she was fond of them, as she was of Diaval, the ever constant in her life, and they represented her personality better than anything she could try.

"Mistress?"

She glanced at her servant, who was holding two goblets.

"Thank you," She accepted the goblet from his left hand and took a sip from its content—mead, another delicacy invented by the faes to which Maleficent had shown great appreciation for. As the noise around her was so loud that she barely could listen to her own voice, so to speak to her servant, Maleficent had to whisper closely. It was late at night, and the little ones had already retired to their nests with their parents.

The party didn't seem to want to end though. The Dark Fae were beings of eccentric passions. In addition, there was a lot of music, summed up by the beat of drums in a tribal rhythm that was accompanied by dances around the bonfire. Faces glowed in the light, revealing the different designs, in colour and shape each fae would show with pride—'marks'—permanent lines printed across their skin, each of different significance, expressing the fae's personality just as the trinkets they used to decorate their clothes and homes with. Maleficent had been offered help if she was to choose a design to mark her skin, and she, not knowing how to decline such a proposal, made it clear that she was thinking of a proper design still.

The truth was that she wouldn't know if she should consider it. Reserved as she was, although not exactly shy either, her clothing would barely show her skin—it would make no sense to print symbols on her body if no one would see them, and she would definitely not mark the skin on her face. She had worn war paint on the day of the battle against Ingrith, but the mark was gone after her death and resurrection.

Which symbol to choose anyway? Udo had told her that each symbol expressed the life of each fae, something that mattered to them, often their mate, their little ones, or any defining moments of their life. Maleficent could think of something related to Aurora, but pastel tones didn't match her personality at all.

Ink inserted into her skin was out of the question—for now.

Maybe a few trinkets would do. She would need to ask Aurora once she was to visit her back at the castle.

It would be, without doubt, an interesting conversation.

"Is . . . are those _eggs?"_

Maleficent was again drinking from her goblet when she heard the question asked out of nowhere. The sound of drums and laughter was quite loud, and she had to turn her attention fully to Diaval to understand the context of his question.

"There, mistress," the fae followed the target of her servant's curious gaze, trying to figure it out what her servant was talking about, "Those are eggs, yes?"

Diaval sounded too excited, always reminding her that he was, in essence, a black bird. Maleficent did not understand the reason for such enthusiasm, however. Her servant spoke of two eggs, in colours that interspersed between red and blue, and of the female fae wrapping them in a wool blanket and pressing them against her chest in a gesture of absolute love. The fae and whom Maleficent concluded to be her mate, taking how his arm was wrapped around her shoulders and his lips kissed her forehead, were talking to two other fae pairs, happy and peaceful, probably being congratulated for such beautiful pair of eggs.

Maleficent smiled softly at the scene and a pull on her heart left her a little breathless. It was an earning she had been ignoring, a want that had not been seen as possible before, a wish that had been forgotten against her will, which was there to set aflame what her heart truly craved for.

There was nothing unusual about the sight, though, just a mother protecting her unborn children, and Maleficent turned to Diaval once more, frowning slightly at his pleased expression, "What about them?"

The Dark Fae were overly protective of their little ones. Maleficent knew now why she would worry so easily for Aurora, and if her servant saw or felt something different about that mated pair and their little ones, Maleficent wished to know, so she could intervene before it was too late.

She had indeed promised her life to protecting those who couldn't.

Diaval eased her very clear worries, "Your species lays eggs!" he said in disbelief, and yet Maleficent failed to find amusement in such a discovery.

"Is that a problem?" she wondered, and her servant sighed, too exasperated taking his not so reserved nature when in friendly conversation, even more so when addressing her—perhaps an effect of the goblet of mead in his hand as well.

"Not a problem, mistress. I was merely under the impression Dark Faes were as humans, who carry their children on their wombs," Diaval explained, "Were you aware—"

"Days ago I was never told about the existence of others like me, Diaval. How would I know?"

Diaval frowned, "The Three Pixies never mentioned—"

Maleficent scoffed, "How would _they_ know?" and her servant rolled his eyes kindly, his mannerisms rather adorable—exaggerated, but adorable, "It does makes sense, however—" she spoke, and went back to her goblet of mead. The liquid was cold but seemed to warm her lungs. She needed to know its form of manufacture. Maybe Udo could answer her. He had been very kind when teaching her about the ways of their people. She returned her gaze to the bonfire, the memories flashing before her eyes, "—as we are descendants of the Phoenix."

"You, the purest," Diaval added matter-of-factly, "A beautiful black bird like myself."

Maleficent felt her cheeks burn, a consequence she blamed on the mead, and immediately raised a questioning eyebrow at her servant. Diaval smiled, more affectionate and kind and demure, like the Diaval she was so used to, "A toast to that?"

For seconds that were similar to decades, the fae got lost in the kindness of her servant's eyes, on how the flames from the bonfire seemed to dance in the edges of his skin. Diaval raised his eyebrows dramatically, expectant for a positive answer, and Maleficent gave in—their goblets touched, Maleficent taking only a shy sip, Diaval fully finishing his mead, then refilling it with the small jar beside him. Dinner had been served, each small group of faes around the fire having their own jars of mead, goblets, a clay bot filled with fruits, unleavened bread wrapped on linen cloth, and small bowls in which the stew had been served. Maleficent was the first to be, as the most powerful in the clan, and so it was her honour to have the best part of everything the clan produced.

Such logic didn't please her at all.

"Indulging on their joy won't hurt, mistress," Diaval was drinking from his goblet of mead with the additional of some grapes in his other hand. He offered Maleficent a few and said, "They are celebrating in your honour."

Oh, she knew—how, you may wonder, to ignore a celebration solemnly dedicated to the tales of your life? Parallel conversations were all around, and many involved the tales of her life. Maleficent abhorred this kind of unwanted attention, which was not new, as they treated her with the same reverence and kindness when she first found solace on their sanctuary.

The only thing that helped on decreasing the feeling of being ultimately out of place was the presence of her servant. Aurora being so away for the first time, a queen and a wife who didn't need a mother hovering over her every step, felt very raw to her heart and vivid to her mind and painful to her pride, though it did not torment her dreams as she had deduced it would when first told of her daughter's engagement to the prince. Diaval would not serve as a poor substitute because the place he occupied in her life differed from the place Aurora occupied, and there was no reason to blend them in.

And why deny it—she enjoyed her servant's company. He never merely served as messenger or spy, having those tasks as his very first, yes, and the very reason she turned hm into a man, to give his speech so he would report anything he knew. Over the years of servitude, Diaval came to represent the remnant of a conscience to pursue her thoughts. Perhaps his insistence on contradicting her actions would have made her face in a mature and rational way what had in fact happened during that fateful dinner at Ulstead. But that did not make her regret turning her servant into a human after being cowardly attacked by one of Ingrith's servants. As much the figure of a raven was melted into the moonlight, Maleficent had not been in the strength to fight soldiers obviously prepared to take her life. Yet again, when by herself alone before the people she had never known, the longing, which she thought was only due to her daughter, drifted her thoughts to the unknowns.

So to invite her servant to join her was not an afterthought. Diaval had expressed no surprise, stating that an invitation would be useless as he was not letting his mistress out of his sight anymore.

She had smiled at his words—to later be mocked by him because her smiles were so rare Diaval jested about recording them on scrolls for future generations—and they flew together to the cave where the faes had built sanctuary. The Dark Fae didn't pay mind at Diaval out of respect for Maleficent, and the raven man worked as a diplomat for not being foolish enough to question the faes who seemed to ignore him entirely.

The little ones however were quite inquisitive about the essence of what he was—a raven man who once had been a wolf, a horse, a bear, a lion and a dragon.

He was adored by them, and he adored them in return.

"Mistress?"

The onset of a headache so ever present, a sighed left her lips, and the fae accepted the few grapes from her servant's hand. They tasted a little bitter against her tongue, a drastic contrast to the mead, but to her, the combination was very pleasant.

"Mistress, please."

Not as a question, but an observation, as her discomfort would not go unnoticed, especially by the person who knew her the longest—Diaval was able to read her like a human would do to their scrolls. Rather annoying for sure, yet his intentions had never been less than kind.

With that in mind, she eventually confessed to him, "They are . . ." but no words would fit a plausible description her people singing and dancing and laughing and eating and drinking, all so enthusiastic. How different they were from her. As much she ought to protect them, from the expectations laid on her shoulders, there was not feel of belonging—never in her life there was. Maleficent was 'Guardian' to the Moors, 'Mother' to Aurora and 'Mistress' to Diaval—but to travel beyond as for integrating on their culture, so different from her own, and to see herself as their 'Dark Phoenix', was to not know who she ought to be.

The thought alone felt impassive, and no end was to it.

" . . . joyful?" Diaval completed the thought, and jested about it, "An interesting contrast to you, yes."

"I can smile," Maleficent argued, not knee on to humour, "Often do, as I recall you saying."

"True enough," Diaval retorted, "But after the children retired, you have been miserable and refused to touch the food so kindly cooked for you."

That was a fact—although the stew had been devoured, the fruits and the unleavened bread would have been abandoned if not for Diaval, while the mead was shared between them.

And having the truth thrown in her face had Maleficent further irritated. She pursed her lips, and resumed to eating her grapes in silence. 

A behaviour that made Diaval smile, "I miss them as well, Mistress. Little ones such as them are indeed the heart of celebrations like this," he spoke casually now, and with great affection, very similar to the way he spoke of Aurora, "And they seem to love the lion form as I do." 

"They love those willing to play with them," and her fondness for little ones was bluntly exposed by a smile that fought the apparent coldness of her voice.

"They admire you as well, Mistress," noting that Maleficent was sceptical, Diaval held a knowing look, "Some of them asked you to instruct them on flying. And you taught them how to leap in the air."

"Their techniques were flawed, and they could harm themselves, so I . . . _assisted."_

Maleficent had struggled to find proper words as justifications, and Diaval was shaking his head, "No one would judge you for caring, Mistress." he said, "I have not when you—" he stopped when a few giggles reached his ears, and interrupted his line of reasoning. Maleficent quickly realised that they were being watched by a group of faes who were sitting very close to her and Diaval. They were all very young, near Aurora's age, and very beautiful.

They were also all women.

Diaval responded to their giggles with a polite smile, "A beautiful night, yes?" but the young faes laughed openly then, and began to whisper quickly to each other, a subtle blush washing their seemingly ethereal features.

The raven man turned his back on the faes as he shifted uncomfortably on his seat. He brought his goblet to his lips while murmuring complains under his breathe. 

"Friends of yours?" Maleficent wouldn't wait patiently till he spoke—there was a must on knowing who those faes were and why they found her servant worthy the jest and foolish giggles.

"No, and it is not the first time I caught them . . . laughing at me," there was a frown on his brow, contemplative, and he rambled on his thoughts, "Again I cannot seem to understand their behaviour. Is is inevitable of them to laugh at guests or these young ones are being rather . . . particular? I thought the Dark Fae appreciated birds, taking we are so alike. Maybe ravens are an exception? Do you know if so, Mistress?" He took a glance at her in the end of his rambling, and noted how she didn't seem to be paying attention to his words. That frustrated him, but out of respect, he wouldn't let his feelings to be clear so bluntly, and called for her first, "Mistress?"

Maleficent had distracted herself with a sip from her goblet of mead. In her mind, thousands of thoughts.

It was strange to think that her servant seemed as versatile in human customs as talking and even behaving at the table, but when it came to faes, he was blind as a bat, as he didn't have any chance to observe them as he did with the humans.

And even though Maleficent knew of her people little more than her servant did, she could easily read through the laughter of those young faes.

And a strange fire burned in her chest, like the wood that fed the fire that warmed that night of typically cold winds, with the moon half revealing itself through rain-laden clouds.

Lighting rushed across the sky, and the faes celebrating were startled, their eyes quickly searching for signs in the sky. Maleficent felt the old burning sensation behind her eyes, which turned green from gold. She reached out for her staff, which had been resting by her side, and clenched a fist around it, erasing the remnants of greenish magic escaping in veiled fury.

"Mistress?" She heard her servent call out for her for a third time, and forgotten was her anger, giving place to pettiness. Little was known how faes were jealous and possessive creatures, even if they don't realize it most of the time, to the point of becoming egotistical if the object of their desire, so close and so dear, was eyed by others. A passionate result from creatures unable to ignore any of their feelings as much they wouldn't simply let go of their motivations—either they solved their problems immediately, or said problems would torment their minds for the rest of their lives.

"You say it is not the first time they laugh at you," her tone was dry, and the mead in her mouth did little to sweeten her words. Diaval did not understand her motives.

And neither did she.

"Those faes?" Diaval asked, and when Maleficent chose to just stare at the bonfire, Diaval accepted her silence as enough of an answer, "Nothing but harmless laughing, Mistress. I see no reason for it but—"

"There is, in fact," Maleficent interrupted him, emotions flowing through her voice like the wild hitting the waves in the middle of a storm, "They are trying to woo you."

Diaval's eyes widened, and he nearly jumped in his seat, _"What?!"_ He exclaimed, and when his mistress didn't deny her accusations, he leaned back in his seat, and the truth settled in on his mind, although the reasoning was nothing more than a blur, "How could they think of that?"

"Indeed," Maleficent spoke, and her tone was bathed in a sarcasm she didn't fully realize the extent, meaning and feelings behind, "How could they."

"—in true they are beautiful—"

_"Very."_

"—and any male would be fortuitous to have them by their side—"

_"Yes."_

"—but they remind of Aurora—"

_"The little beastie herself."_

"—and so it would be wrong to have one of them as a mate—"

_"Terrible."_

"—especially with those wings of theirs!"

No answer was for this. It was new information, a raven attribute, she deduced, because his logic didn't make much sense to her.

"Their wings?" sarcasm vanishes to curiosity. Her own wings stretched a little. Diaval followed the movement with his eyes, a common reaction since he first laid his eyes on those pair of wings, "What about them?"

Diaval lowered his voice to a whisper, as if telling a secret, "They are not properly preened!" Maleficent said nothing, signalling her servant to continue. His tone became pragmatic, "Mistress—a raven does appreciate wings, yes, but they must be well cared for. Like yours!"

Her voice also became a whisper, her eyes glowing a more natural green, "My wings?" she asked.

"Well, yes, they are," and his smile became as loving as his eyes, which did not even blink as they admired her features in awe, "Infinitely, more beautiful than any wings I have ever seen."

A beat of heart went by, and eyes found again solace and distraction on the bonfire.

Diaval was a bold creature. Loud and passionate and overwhelmingly caring, but he never even came close to disrespect and crossing any boundaries. His actions were anticipated by questions full of worry, for, naturally, it was what his mistress wanted that mattered to him the most, and never what he as a servant thought it was best.

As she stopped counting the years, and the words of her curse became a nightmare to torment her, the concepts of what she wanted as a mistress and what he cared as a servant mingled, and a certain understanding was built between them. He would talk and she would listen, actually _listen_ to him, whenever he had the feel to express his thoughts or simply comment on hers, and she might or might not give a word or two. When he realised that their conversations could calm her down if the right words were said, he would find excuses to talk all the time time, and she had fun with his not so concealed strategy. His goals didn’t involve manipulating her will, however. He cared for her state of mind as a servant wasn't supposed to.

But that never stopped him, and neither would she. If he talked too much, she would simply glare at him, as turning him into a raven resulted on him pestering her with berries and nuts—sometimes shiny stones from which she crafted rings—because if his mistress wasn’t on the mood to listen to him, then he would try to help her in any other ways he could.

That's the most unsettling thing when it comes to her servant—that he was so willing. He cared like no one dared to. Ultimately, he didn't fear her. Humanity did. Stefan, when their first met, was shaking in fear. Moorish creatures never dared to approach her—most fled her presence. The three pixies who raised her showed envy, the fear of being surpassed. The very reason of Ingrith's hatred was her fear. Even Aurora feared her when she found out about the curse. Diaval looked at her, his mistress, with wonder, curiosity, and never fear.

One would think he had when she first turned him into a man. But he held her gaze, chin high, eyes narrow, and was more concerned with his 'beautiful self' rather than fearing the dark being in front of him.

And he would argue with her. He would dare to say— _to her face_ —that she was wrong.

Or over dramatic.

Or petty.

Or stubborn.

He would spot flaws on her plans, and complain about the weather and the forms she chose to turn him into, and make sarcastic remarks about her denial on loving the little beastie. She would then contradict on his logic if only to annoy him, as much to save her pride. It was a no return point when she found herself irritated whenever her servant didn’t seem willing to bicker with her. Those situations of pure freedom and domesticity brought a sense of normalcy that comforted her. He was not human, even if he appeared to be one, and his actions, words, gestures, the warmth emanating from his body . . . his very raspy, piercing voice always reminded her that he would never be afraid of her as much she should never fear him. Not because he couldn't hurt her, but knowing he never dared to think of something like that, like Stefan had, it warmed her heart.

_Trust_ was not an attribute owned to people.

Trust is _earned._

Diaval has achieved _much more_ than that.

"Mistress?"

Maleficent thought it was fair to let him know, "Thank you," she said, and the meaning behind her words was capable of shaking the very core of earth, "For preening them."

For wings were a fae's life and to touch them required the reliability to a beloved one, the faith of the fae whose wings will be touched, the certainty to be so intimately touched, and the audacity to allow yourself such intimacy. To be trusted in such a significant way by someone who had her wings stolen once was a sign of respect. Diaval became aware of that the moment his mistress didn't consider a single hesitation when requesting his help on preening her wings.

He never questioned being offered such freedom, knowing that she would not be ready to talk about such matters, and perhaps never would be. He didn't mention the way she allow herself to rest after he preened her wings, neither complained about the hours he spent doing so. To look at her wings and praise them, as he knew that forever they would be what his mistress loved the most, he would not be drawn to carelessness. Had someone look at her wings and see them so beautiful, she would be afraid—threatened, attacked, violated by just one look, just a smile, just a word, a simple compliment.

Diaval made her feel anything but that.

For he knew his mistress, and she would never thank him for something she was not really grateful for. And her wings, such precious possession, and having her to see them as beautiful, recognising the beauty of his work as well acknowledging the importance of his thinking . . .

The grin on his lips was ridiculously proud.

"Stop smiling," a scold, so to speak, requires annoyance, which was none from her part, and that made Diaval's smile grow even bigger that it seemed his face would split in two. Maleficent’s following words came in a warning, also in need of seriousness, "Diaval—"

"I must thank you, instead, Mistress," his voice dissolved into kindness rather than playfulness, his smile alive more than ever. And as Maleficent remained still, questioning loud on her mind, her servant clarified his reasoning, "For trusting them to me."

_Indeed._

He had achieved a lot more than she was willing to admit.

_"Brothers! Sisters!"_

A loud and powerful voice drew everyone's attention around the bonfires, breaking the cheerful atmosphere, and interrupted parallels conversations. Borra, the Desert Fae, stopped close to the bonfire, so that his figure would stay in focus and make it easier for everyone to hear his voice. His pose was dominant, and his hardened gaze called for order, and the scars covering his muscles demanded respect. He carried the archetype of the strong warrior devoted to his people, but who would not show much sympathy for his victims, much less patience for those who would argue with him, probably because he could not argue without raising his voice, like a child when crying for their mother. Borra was known to be as crude and unscrupulous, although kind to the little ones he seemed to resemble in manners.

To allow himself, however, to speak to the people, something that would not generally intimidate him, but would require the kind of eloquence that no one there would bind to him, meant that was he was to speak to the people was of utmost importance.

And that's what made the people devote their gazes to him and pay full attention to what he was about to say. There was only the sound of fire burning the wood that warmed the people, and perhaps some parallel murmurs, so few that they were insignificant. So many eyes upon him did not intimidate Borra, as almost nothing could indeed frighten him, breathed from his chest and his wings spread, growing his figure taller and stronger for those who watched him from afar.

"Brothers! Sisters!" he spoke out, "We are gathered here to celebrate—the war is finally over and the Dark Fae are free!"

His words made the people raise their goblets of mead and shouting words of victory, and the musicians played the drums quickly. Faes were beings easily influenced by speeches of strength and honour, and that was too taught to the humans they once loved so much.

Borra raised both hands, and silence settled again on the Sanctuary, "Never before could we celebrate where tomorrow was not feared by its uncertainty," he continued, and walked around the bonfire, and would look at the eye of all the faces as if personally talking to their very souls, "Despite the losses, we know that the names of our lost brothers and sisters will never be forgotten, and their spirits will join the stars as well as the spirits of our ancestors!"

Another round of celebration flocked around Sanctuary, wilder faes beating their fists onto their own chests, and more drums, and more shots in victory, and this time, Borra raised his voice above those around him, and his words had such an effect that the people fell silent before them.

"But that also means our population is scarce! Our numbers are small, for the loss of the centuries and the wars!"

It felt like a warning, a treat, a plague. The people around the bonfire seemed to nod and mutter, and their voices decreased in volume. There was a certain rebellion and sadness in their expressions. Maleficent, though so recently acquainted with her people, would always mourn the loss of souls to iron and the 'red dust'.

_'Red wedding'_ was how that event became known.

And much feared by all kingdoms.

"It is a tradition of old—" Borra's deep voice returned, and his face gradually rested on Maleficent, as if explaining to her exclusively, aware she was unfamiliar with the many traditions of her people, "—that when the population decreases, that _the Dance_ takes place, and due recent events, all would be allowed!"

A sudden enthusiasm engulfed the people, and literally all there starting to talk to each other, and the sadness of moments ago was replaced with the hope and joy that seemed to bathe their deeds at every second of their lives. Maleficent took notice on how they would rejoice at the simplest of things, and didn't know if it was due their own nature, or the fruit of a life of so much hardships that any good things should be celebrated, for they would be so rare.

". . . the Dance?" Diaval whispered to himself, feeling utterly lost.

"Mating rituals," Maleficent quickly explained, having listened to his confusion, and Diaval seemed to pause.

Then, "Oh." His voice lost the joy and freedom from the previous hours and a frown took place on his brow. Maleficent literally felt something was wrong, the change on his demeanour being to dramatic for to be something simple.

She would've turned to him, however, and asked what was bothering him, had Borra not resumed his speech and silence returned among the people.

"That being said, my brothers and sisters—"

Borra interrupted his speech and turned to Maleficent in the goal to approach her. The fae straightened her spine and lifted her chin, not wanting to show her confusion at the fae folk. Borra didn't frighten her, but he was unpredictable, just like any other fae, and she only knew him for a few days, and she felt deeply uncomfortable when anyone she didn't trust approached her. It was a natural reflex. It took years for her to be able to trust anyone—she wouldn't trust a man out of nothing even if he was of her own kind, especially when he treated her like a weapon to be used against the humans in the first time they met.

Borra himself was not afraid of her either. And so he approached, and immediately Diaval rose from his seat, standing between the warrior fae and his mistress, who did nothing but watch the scene unfolding before her. But Borra smirked at the raven man, daring to defy him. Diaval would not back down—indeed, he stepped forward, facing Borra with a deep frown, tight lips and chin high, proud and brave. His mistress valued her personal space above many things, and he knew how much the presence of any man, fae or human, seemed to bother her due to the painful memories of her trauma.

Thus, Diaval would never allow anyone to make Maleficent feel uncomfortable. He regretted not intervening during that fateful dinner with Queen Ingrith, who was obviously testing the Dark Fae to her limit. He respected that his mistress had full capacity to defend herself, she was the most powerful fae, but at that moment he acted on sheer instinct.

_No one_ would touch Maleficent against her will.

Absolutely _no one_ would make her suffer again.

"May I pass, shape-shifter?" Borra avoided the use of his name on purpose, the wish to insult very clear.

Diaval swallowed hard and a stressed huff left his nostrils, like a wolf protecting his pack, a horse challenged by a rival, a bear whose territory was invaded, a lion when choosing a victim, or a dragon when prepared to breathe fire.

A raven would already have plucked Borra's eyes out his skull.

"You may speak from where you stand."

Maleficent's voice brought Diaval, whose eyes would follow Borra's every movements like a predator to its prey, back to reason, even though it was no use stopping him from facing the warrior. One might expect a warrior to admire physical strength and courage, and Borra may have looked impressed if he considered Diaval as anything more than a servant who should not interfere on matters that weren't his.

And so, he bowed his head in a reverence, and said loudly and clear, "I am here, Dark Phoenix, as Borra of the Desert Fae, to humbly ask for your wisdom."

What you may call an ingenious silence ruled over, and maybe some murmurs if one was willing to pay more attention to their surroundings, a cricket singing into night, and perhaps the waves of the sea hitting the rocks, coming and going in an endless symphony that was increasingly fed by the force of the wind.

Maleficent could call herself paralysed for lack of adjective or better description. Not only for the unusualness of Borra's request, but also for his formality and respect and delicacy that Maleficent, again, would not associate with the warrior.

"Wisdom," She only managed to repeat the word mind could register before it stopped. She tested it on her tongue, sought her limited knowledge on the fae people for guidance, but seeing that the responses would only result in suspicion, she decided to turn for Udo's guidance, "Clarify."

The Tundra Fae stepped forward and bowed his head on a short reverence, and his smile was complacent as he placed a hand on Borra's shoulder, mentioning him to raise his head, which he did, "We wish to begin preparations for _the Dance_ , and would like your deference on when."

"The Dance," She felt foolish for being only able to repeat words, but of all things considered, this definitely didn't cross her mind. It was worse that the fae folk looked at her expectantly, eager to hear supposed _words of wisdom_. She instinctively searched for Diaval's gaze, and noted the tense muscles of his jaw, protectiveness emanating from him, softer than the warmth from the bonfire so close to them. It grounded her a little, it calmed her heart down, and she tried to erase any doubts before making a decision, "To be be forced upon the people?"

Udo shook his head, "Not by force—by _right_. Dark Faes cannot bond without love. As our leader, you are to choose an specific season for us to choose a mate. With heats happening at the same time, pregnancies and eggs would soon follow, and more little ones would be born, ensuring a stronger generation to be raised."

"I take such tradition is not usual, as you now come to me," Maleficent commented, "Why is that?"

Udo tried to explain, "To lay eggs, or even mate, at the same season, was not allowed to all, only the strongest, to guarantee the born of a strong offspring, and even those were limited to just one or two eggs."

"So the weak were not allowed to love?" Diaval's voice sounded rasp and low. Maleficent shared of his tumultuous thoughts and frowned back at Udo and Borra, and the latter barked at the raven man.

"Do not you dare question our methods, crow!" Borra's wings spread open, like a alpha male marking a territory when he felt threatened by imposing his presence, "You are not one of us!"

_"He is one of mine!"_

A voice echoed through the walls of the cave, and another lightning streaked across the sky, higher than the first, and a light wind struck the fires, but not quenching them, but threatening them.

"And he's a raven, not a crow."

The colour of her eyes returning to the wild green instead of the threatening stormy gold and the dread of her enemies or anyone who disrespects or threatens those whom she praised in her heart—for when Maleficent loved, she loved with all she had. And those who defied her, let trembling by her feet be the only thing done to it.

"Educate yourself and know the clear difference."

Light laughter could be heard around the fire, the younger ones thinking of the scene as if another spectacle. The reverence that Borra had shown to Maleficent was slowly fading, giving way to his usual aggressiveness and impulsive spirit. Udo, in turn, sighed deeply, and his absurdly calm and gentle nature succeeded in changing the course the talks were taking.

"I hope we can resolve this issue without incidents," he turned to Borra, "Is that not right, my friend?"

The warrior grumbled a complaint which added nothing to the conversation. He was like a beast being tamed.

"I meant no disrespect," Diaval said, and Udo nodded in acceptance to his sincere apology.

"Difficult times call for difficult decisions," Udo turned to the people, and raised his voice, "A concept known by all of us! It was safer to control our family's growth when future was uncertain. But now the danger is gone—"

"—you wish to expand and strengthen the clan," Maleficent finished the sentence, as their reasoning would fit her understanding.

"Humans hunting us at every corner made it impossible to do so," Borra grunted, his gritting teeth bared in a hiss, "But as long this 'peace' remains, there is nothing stopping us."

Maleficent narrowed her eyes, and regarded the warrior but for a second to then ask, "And why would I choose whenever the people should form a bond or not?"

And Udo responded as if it was obvious, "You are the Dark Phoenix. Traditions demands we defer to your wisdom."

_Oh._

To say Maleficent was uncomfortable was an understatement.

She knew the fae folk respected her—they had given no sign of any different thinking. But this? The children supposedly admiring her, men bowing their heads to her wisdom and women smiling at her servant, desire in their eyes—the kind of attention never sought, much less thought she would have. Leadership was not in her blood. Protectiveness? Yes. Revenge? No doubt. So it was anger and rage, and strength and fire, and passion and love. Wisdom, however, had never been found in her actions. How could her people think otherwise. No matter how willing and eager they were for her to learn about the culture she was denied as a child, Maleficent saw no use on them coming to her for anything other than protection.

The mistakes in her life were enough proof.

"Mistress?"

She looked at Diaval, the cloud of hardness gone, the old warmth and understanding pouring into apprehension. Maleficent pressed her lips, and turned to Borra, who was now frowning, his eyes interspersing between her and Diaval with an expression of pure confusion.

The headache was getting worse.

"Spring is still on its beginning," she said, "As most living creatures, it would be natural if the people were to find their mates as other living creatures do."

To her relief, an air of approval washed over the people, and they toasted at her decision.

Maleficent knew that she would never adapt to this kind of open personality.

"That would be a suitable analogy," Udo nodded approvingly to Maleficent, who returned the gesture, even though she wasn't sure what she was doing.

"What does it take to participate?"

Diaval's question didn't only catch Maleficent by surprise. Borra also looked at the raven man strangely, and so did Udo, who also didn't seem to understand.

" _Answer him_ ," Her voice came out in a harsh order, and Borra bared his teeth in response.

Udo was the one to respond, "Having lived more than sixteen summers, and obviously having no mate. Which reminds me," Udo turned his face to a small group of faes, Shrike among them, and shadows of query fell over Maleficent's face when she saw Shrike nod at Udo, a shared secret between them.

The Tundra Fae turned to Maleficent, "We were discussing this matter earlier and would like to know if it would be wise to mate outside the community? Taking your relations with humans and non fae creatures, do you think it would be wise to mingle?"

It was an unusual request, and Maleficent was now sure that it has been made out of the self interest, "If the mate is willing to respect our traditions, then I do not see why forbid it."

Udo smiled, "Good. Then it is settled," He turned to Shrike again, "You can court that general of yours now, cousin."

Laughter spread around the bonfire along jokes and murmurs, and Shrike was obviously flushed under all the paint on her face. She grabbed a rock and throw it at Udo, but he deflected it easily.

"I take hybrid pairings were not previously allowed for a reason," Maleficent commented and Udo let out a sigh loaded with regret.

"Considering how dangerous it was to even try to talk to humans, no. Also, some of us weren't . . . receptive to the rare hybrid offspring of faes and non-faes."

"And now they wish for the wisdom of the same hybrid offspring?"

A round of gasps was overheard.

Maleficent didn't blink an eye. She wasn't ashamed of her blood. Why would she be? Her human mother died while giving birth to her daughter. Her Dark Fae father was later killed while fighting a group of hunters, and their child, Maleficent, abandoned in the Moors. She never understood _why_ till now. Why the Three Fairies never mentioned of her kind. Why they only sought for her power. Why she was the most powerful of them all, and why only near extinction they swallowed their pride and decided to save her life.

_Now_ —it made sense.

The irony was on her.

_She_ was the fucking irony.

"You're not a pure Fae?" Borra's voice coming out a little louder and higher than usual, so much was his surprise, and the astonishment of all Dark Fae present.

Maleficent had never shared the secret of origins to anyone—not Diaval, her eternal confident and conscience, nor Aurora, her beloved daughter. There would be no reason to entrust such information to them, not due any lack of trust, no—there was no one she trusted more. And nothing would change the way they would look at her, yet, she honestly didn't need anyone's pity. But she didn't hide such out of shame, although she knew that such could and would be used against her in judging her apparent sympathy for humans—even if her affection was strict dedicated to Aurora, and perhaps Philip, if she was in a good mood.

The only time she felt ashamed of herself—and even then it was a battle to admit it—was when Aurora asked her to wear the veil that would hide her horns, but she knew the young queen intended no harm, and recognized the efficient damage-containment strategy when facing of what others would call a tragic reaction, and she would call it comical one: the screams the cries of the villagers along with their torches and pitchforks. Another effect of Ingrith's vile rumors, and usually Maleficent would care nothing if the entire world cursed her name, knowing that she could do nothing to change their minds—the tale of _Sleeping Beauty_ was a story to be told through countless generations. What those generations would not know was of how succeed the birth of the 'dragon witch' who bestowed the princess with a curse, as much they would never know that she shared blood with them.

They weren't worth the headache.

"My mother was human."

Diaval, from his part, stared at his mistress with bewilderment, and the words came out of his mouth before they could stop them, "Well, that's something."

And Maleficent simply replied, "Try not to sound so repulsed."

Diaval's dry chuckle carried a touch of indignation, "I'll ignore you'd even consider that."

Meanwhile, Borra and Udo stared at her. Maleficent noted their attitude, as well remembered her bickering with her servant was being watched, and ignoring the frown Diaval offered her, asked the people, "Is that all you wish of my _wisdom?"_ the word felt sarcastic, yet no one seemed to mind that trait.

The warrior, angrier than ever, and the storyteller, ashamed as one could be in his situation, bowed their heads in respect, and said together, "We are sure so, Dark Phoenix."

Maleficent raised from her seat, grabbed her staff, and hit it on the floor once.

"Let _the Dance_ begin."

  
  


* * *

  
  


Faes usually retreated to their nests three to five hours before sunrise. They didn't need as many hours of rest as other creatures, and they certainly weren't lazy like humans.

The Dark Fae Cave was situated beyond the farthest shore, where the sea was wild and pillars of rocks were surrounded by the wreckage of ships that had either dared to try to dock there, or had been carried by the waves and the wind. It was majestic—hundreds of chambers adapted by the four existing fae species to make them feel at home.

_Desert Faes_ lived by the edges of canyons, and their nests were hidden in side crevices. They were very well concealed, and paintings of various colours surrounded their inner walls. They had a duty to keep the people—they were warriors because they were the strongest and the fastest.

_Tundra Faes_ lived closer to the sea because of the damp breeze, and northern ice caps surrounded the entrance to their nests, which were shrouded in furs. They were responsible for clothing and armour.

_Jungle Faes_ made their nests from leaves and twigs, shaped into what looked like large bags hanging from the ceiling of the cave where food was planted and harvested, making it their responsibility to grow crops and healing herbs.

Maleficent was the only remaining Forest Fae, the Dark Phoenix, the leader of her people, the Protector, and so when she had to set up her nest, the hardest thing was finding a suitable place.

The other faes were extremely kind to offer her their own nests. She made it clear she wouldn't take their homes from them, but accepted help when it came to finding her own. Nothing seemed natural to her—either it was too small, or too big, or too wet, or too dry, or too cold, or too hot.

On the verge of giving up, Maleficent sat by the fire and was having breakfast at the sound of Udo's stories to the little ones when she felt a light touch on her shoulder . . .

"Mistress?"

Diaval had not spoken a word about her current search for a nest.

And it was Diaval who led her to a lower part of the cave. They flew briefly, falling, as far as Maleficent recognised as a hidden clearing hidden behind a waterfall. Trespassing the waters had her stuck by the sight of an old tree, the largest she had ever seen, perhaps the largest on the entire face of the planet.

Truly, an extraordinary imperfection. The allure was matched by the backdrop of shy waterfalls, as the tree itself was worn by time, without leaves or fruit, and whose branches twined to the edges of a cliff.

It looked like a forbidden for trees and its poor condition made it look melancholic. The interior reminded her of an old castle. She could smell the ocean in the distance and hear the people to the south. The sunlight would be shy but not completely unknown and the temperature was warm, even though the sky was partially cloudy.

"How did you find this place?"

The tree had a large hollow and the pair managed a way inside.

Diaval, who just watched as his mistress seemed to check the condition of the tree, sounded quite casual, "A little bit of luck, I suppose."

Maleficent did not believe him for a second, "You are always with me," she quickly deduced, "How would you find this place without—" the answer was simple, seen through her servant's tired eyes, and her voice came out in a whisper, "Diaval."

This vain creature who insisted on bickering with her in front of anyone, this man whom her daughter saw as father, this spirit of the night who was faithful to her more than anyone else, this dear friend who spent the time he could take to rest simply so that she could rest.

"Anything you need, mistress," He bowed his head and Maleficent shook hers, managing to laugh at such a gesture.

"You shouldn't have," she told him.

"And what kind of servant would I be if I didn't?" He asked rhetorically.

"A wise servant," she scolded him. She was exasperated, not angry. She couldn't actually remember when Diaval really got on her nerves, not even when her wings had been stolen, her curse given a few days, and her hatred burning all the time.

He had always been very grateful to her, she did save his life, and she knew that if anyone had been careless or insensitive, it had been her, in her eternal battle with herself, for not giving in, for not indulging, for simply denying everything her heart cried out.

Diaval, in fact, never judged her for it.

And she . . . felt strongly about him. What to make of those feelings, she didn't know, of so unsure and dangerous they were, and the safest route to a fae whose matters of the heart felt more frightening than the burn of iron.

"It is . . . interesting."

Diaval felt like she was judging his work, and his raven nature spoke louder, "I know it's not perfect. The view is very beautiful but—" and then he wouldn't shut up, "—maybe there is a better place—" and Maleficent was amused by his sudden nervousness, "—there must be other places—"

"Diaval, do be quite."

He lowered his head, nodding twice, "Yes, Mistress."

"We have a lot of work ahead."

"Yes, Mistress."

"And I was offered help."

Diaval looked up, and away was the sense of servitude, close to that of a twenty-year-old intimacy, "You, accepting help?" He jested, "Did you hit your head?"

"A little."

It turned out that she didn't need to ask for help. On the same day, the Dark Faes came and helped her. Maleficent didn't question them—she gladly accepted the kindness and such goodwill.

Which resulted in a busy afternoon. The faes, mostly women, came in and out her nest all the time. Each species did something different.

Desert Faes were the first to arrive. They offered to paint the walls with drawings that told the stories of her people, and one specific drawing of the Dark Phoenix. Maleficent didn't mind, although she made them promise her they wouldn't use bright colours.

Maleficent used her magic and restored the tree, giving it life again, strengthening it and eliminating any unwanted little visitors. She knew this was their home, but the law of the strongest was the law of nature.

She was restoring a crack outside trunk when felt a little hand pull on her grown. Looking down, she saw a little Desert Fae.

The smile was on her face before she could prevent it.

"Can I help you?"

The little one had a small piece of coal on her hand and asked, "Where would you like me to paint the raven man? Mommy said I could paint him if you wanted to."

Inevitably, Maleficent thought of Diaval, who had taken responsibility for organising the nest, for when the Jungle Faes arrived, they brought several things with them: food, utensils, pots, goblets, tools—a fae even gifted her with a harp, as Maleficent was not pleased with the loud sound of the drums—it resembled the sound of wartime, and so she did not want them in her nest. As Diaval knew his mistress' likings and dislikes—after so many years together how could he not—and Maleficent realised she was too busy restoring the tree outside to think about how to organize the nest inside, so she gave Diaval the task. The Jungle Faes then proceeded to follow his instructions, which were always didactic, and he masterfully directed the faes in their doings, and the fate of their gifts.

"Too small," Maleficent heard Diaval's voice from inside the nest, "I understand the need for a window, but how use this if not large enough to be considered a window?"

Maleficent barely tapped her fingers, and her magic caused the crack in the nest wall to grow larger into a round shape, with small vines by its edges. Maleficent's face was revealed to Diaval and the fae beside him who gasped, impressed by the use of magic so casually.

"Mistress, there you are!" But Diaval, already accustomed to his mistress's antics, was cheerful, and then proceeded to hang the curtains on the new window.

Smiling, Maleficent turned to the young fae, "What about a raven, then a wolf, a horse, a dragon, a bear and a lion? Would you be able to do that for me?"

The little fae's eyes shone in delight—she seemed to love a challenge.

"I can!" She said, "You will like them very much, I promise!"

By the sunset, Tundra Faes arrived. They brought with them furs and blankets, gowns, leather bracelets and belts, jewellery made of feathers and vines, and golden adornments for her horns. Udo dug a hole into the ground to build the bonfire that would be there, as usual to the other nests, so that the light was evenly divided. The bed, lined with the fur of three different animals, was hidden behind a curtain of red silk—Maleficent, though now more sociable, still held her privacy a great deal.

And when the moon was but a thin smile, Maleficent collected a few flowers, breathing magic inside them, and hanging them to the ceiling as candlelight . . .

. . . it was the first nest to bring her a sense of belonging. When she lived in the Moors, she never really had a fixed place to live. She changed places depending on her mood, her first home being a tree on the edge of the abyss, from which she had watched Aurora play so many times, to the point that she saved her life when she fell from that same abyss.

It was ironic to live in another tree by the edges of another abyss.

She didn't know if Diaval had noticed the resemblance, but she was just as grateful . . .

_"Diaval?"_

The moon was a large grin, and its light entered the tree by the edge of the abyss.

The raven man stopped on his tracks and quickly turned to his mistress, "Yes?"

Maleficent cleared her throat, then inquired him, "What is this about?"

_This_ was the unusual behaviour of her servant, who from all the courage and dedication natural of his being, from being overly protective when facing Borra, from the shyness in proposing toasts, even from the small discussions about the quality of young fae wings, all of that, as the nights and days went on, whenever they returned to the nest to rest, and he became human again, in contrast to the burning hearth, the fire that seemed to be within him went out.

Absolute silence was impossible as they nested there, on the edge of an abyss, at the dawn of a waterfall, and the sound was comforting to her as she slept. But without the usual calm nature of her servant, Maleficent found herself alert and apprehensive. Diaval respected her need for silence, when and only it was required. When not, he would always finds a way or another to start some kind of conversation—he always commented on the situations where they were, or what they saw, or what they felt.

To hear only the crickets singing and the water falling into the abyss was uncomfortable, and Maleficent simply knew that she could find sleep if she did not know the why on such depressing state.

She didn't know how to approach him, however, since her servant seemed so focused on whatever tasks he seemed to have found himself. She opened the curtains and revealed the furs of her nest and sat by them, staff in hand, and she watched her servant take a stick to poke at the wood that fed the flames of bonfire in the centre of the nest. She watched as he turned to make sure the windows of the nest were closed. She watched as he would walk in hurried and nervous steps. She watched as he would nervously rub his hands on the fabric of his pants, his head low to his feet.

She lost her patience when he almost dropped the jars that he had meticulously organised by the fire.

"Diaval?"

The raven man opened his mouth on a reflex and closed it another, pressing his lips into a thin line. His chest heaved in a lost breathe that ended in a tired, sad sigh. He shook his head at what seemed to be his own thoughts, and said, "Nothing of any consequence, mistress."

Maleficent contemplated him, "The last time you said that you referred to Aurora's engagement. How was that without any consequence?"

He gave her no response. Obviously his thoughts had importance but not enough to make him talk. Even though she wished him to do so, as during dinner that night, Diaval seemed farther away from her in all the years they had shared together.

"What is it, _pretty bird_ _?"_

She watched the roll of his eyes at the pet name given by Aurora, yet tiredness and sadness lingered. The small, fond smile that followed shared similar symptoms, though kindness never left. She couldn't say that it had ever abandoned him—kindness was part of him, the most alive, his true self, and denying it would be the same as his death—for it would only end with his death.

The shadows hovering over the rest of the flames of the fire burning in front of them served to reveal his features, but not to tell what was behind them. His mannerisms had been limited to an extreme. His head was bowed, and his left hand fingers rubbing those of his right hand, restlessness and nervousness, and to say things her heart never heard.

"Just feeling tired, Mistress," he said in a nonchalant way so uncharacteristic of him that it was starting to annoy her, "Surely after a day of duties, one could hardly not feel—"

_"Diaval."_

A tone that carried an order that made him shut his mouth and obey and sit by his mistress' side by the very edge of her best, the space of one person between them.

"What is it?"

The softness of her, and the honest concern, built a sense of intimacy that ripped his heart into beats that increased with speed every second. He licked his suddenly dry lips, and still not having the courage to look at his mistress, who was looking at him in waiting, expecting responses to her inquiries. Her servant was unable to find them and tried to distract his gaze in order to gather enough courage.

The nest was not short of options, not decorated with many things, not as he remembered humans used to love and brag about, and as ravens did it with shiny things, but the details were diverse enough to get one's attention. There were pots filled with fruits and vegetables, linen cloths wrapping unleavened bread and jars of mead; there were furs covering the large bed made of large tree branches; there was the bonfire in the very centre of the nest; there were the flowers magically set against the ceiling, a magical light shining from their pollen, and there were the drawings painted by a little fae of only seven springs and who had more talent for details than any of the paintings that Diaval had ever seen adorning Aurora's and Philip's castle.

And that same little fae, with such a sweet smile and freckles all over her face, red hair and coloured wings like bow decorating the sky after the rain, she who had said goodbye to Diaval with a kiss on the cheek, had painted him in his many forms.

He knew the significance of such an act by noticing the figure of Aurora beside his own, her blond hair and blue dress being the first thing anyone would notice when noting the drawings made on the walls of the nest.

And he was so moved, almost cried in fact, to realize the importance of himself in his mistress's life. He would never ask for more, he was glad to be by her side, to see her smile, and to be allowed to take care of her well-being, so trusted by her, to be appreciated so sincerely and uniquely.

Which made the whole current situation irrelevant.

And yet he did not seem able to rest his own mind, which so treacherously filled his chest with agony and jealousy and insecurity.

He had earned his place in her life. Why insist on wanting more, knowing she would never love him?

And why be selfish in not wanting her to find someone of her own kind to love, even if it is like iron severing his wings?

"That's me."

He was distracted without much success, speaking his own thoughts, the least fussy, talking about the drawings that decorated the walls around him.

"Yes."

Maleficent had thanked the drawings by blessing the little fae who made them with a brush that would not need ink, neither falther with time. An outstanding gift according to the little fae's parents, yet Maleficent still thought it didn't suffice her talents. The details of the figures were so rich that sometimes Maleficent found herself admiring them for longs periods of time—they held the memories of her life, travelling in flashes of colour and joy and sadness. Sorrow and regret was found in the tiny drawing of a blue flower, the same species that served as candle lights to her nest. The death of one of the Three Pixies was the death of the Moors, a noble sacrifice in the name of the good of the people would be honoured for the centuries to come.

"Thank you," She heard her servant said, and he had again found great grace in his own hands, in nothing else clarifying about his intentions with that conversation.

Maleficent frowned, " . . . is that all?" she asked, as patience had never been a favourite trait, even though she had been willing to watch over the little beastie for 16 years to make sure her curse would be fulfilled—today she knew it was only a way to distract herself from the great misfortunes of her life, and how she realised that harming Aurora wouldn't harm Stefan. As king, what he loved most was his crown—it was for power that he abandoned his wife to a deathbed, caring only to impose his power on himself and the nobles of his court in numerous failed attempts to invade the Moorish kingdom. And when Maleficent realized it was a war of wounded pride, she made of Stefan's life a living, and humiliated him before his soldiers, and defeated him before his vassals, and laughed while he was kicked by a wall of thorns.

Which left her with the curse on the child that would in no way affect the welfare of her father. Maleficent began to see herself in the child, abandoned so relapsingly that not even a kiss of her parents could save her.

The kiss came from the one who cursed her, the one who wouldn't allow herself to express such love explicitly. 

One could apply such an analogy for the rest of her life.

_Reciprocity_ was never part of it, anyway.

"Tomorrow . . . " Diaval tried to express himself, and it seemed difficult to him, his awkwardness and lack of eloquence and boldness being uncomfortable to the point that Maleficent was on the verge of losing her temper, " . . . tomorrow _the Dance_ happens."

The fae blinked twice, bewilderment sweeping over her, and said, "Indeed," with nothing more to add other than stare at her servant without understanding wherever this reasoning came from and wherever in hells that conversation would lead.

But Diaval knew very well the consequences of his actions, and what he lacked was boldness to face them. For what he had to lose was greater than any possibility of change in their relationship, however great the reward was.

"Do you consider it?" he asked, and this time he invoked his fearless nature, or as others said ravens had. He looked into his mistress's eyes, and lay awaiting an answer, realizing however how she did not seem to understand what he meant.

"Consider _what_ , Diaval?" she asked.

He didn't find immediate words. He was lost in eyes that looked so beautiful as what humans had named _emeralds_ , brighter than the most precious of gemstones, the so-called _diamonds_ , which reflected outwardly a fragility that was challenged by its indestructiveness.

The analogy was no wonder. Eternal would be the memory of his mistress in his life, and indestructible was the love he felt for her, who in turn, despite appearing to be indestructible, was fragile and required care as much any treasure a king or queen might keep safe in their vaults.

"A mate," he answered, finally, for it was what he had always wanted to be to her, from the first moment, when the need to care and serve was born, diverting the sense of servitude completely, but without the malice of men. But the memories would be eternal in her mind. Suffice for her to understand that as painful they were, they were not indestructible like diamonds.

"Forgive me," Diaval tried to mend what he would call a disrespect rather quickly, noting his mistress's silence at his words, "I didn't mean—"

"There is nothing to forgive," She cut him off, not harsh, just straight to the point, "Your questioning has no meaning, however."

Diaval wished he could look away from her so she wouldn't interpret the pain behind his voice.

"You don't consider it then."

Life sentences usually come after a fair trial. To condemn oneself to a life without a partner's love was unacceptable to most forms of life, animal, magical, and especially human. Without relationships there was no continuation of life, no prosperity of society, and no happiness for the people. For Diaval, it was always a quest for survival, the continuation of an endless cycle to which he would only be a pawn among several pieces much more relevant to the world than he was.

Falling in love with Maleficent modified how he saw the world around him, not only because she gave him the ability to do so, but because Maleficent became the reason he wanted to see the world differently.

For without her, what would he be? Nothing more than a raven, and that he would not be able to accept it, not after so many years by her side. For ravens mate for life, and in his heart he belonged to her. He would give anything for a chance to make her see him in the same light, or something close to it, but not if the price is her pain.

He would die before he saw her suffer.

" _Who_ would I consider?" His mistress was naturally ignorant of his feelings, and seemed offended by the mere suggestion of taking a mate for herself, "Borra?"

That name made Diaval's jaw tighten and his gaze fell back to his own hands, "He seemed interested," he murmured, in the attempt of not seeming to care, when in fact that was all he thought, the reason for his sudden sadness and stillness. As much as his chest ached, as much as his heart broke, his lungs heaved as if they were drowning, for if his mistress found love with the strong fae warrior, what could he say, or feel, if not happiness for her happiness? He would love her for the forever the rest of his life was, and his happiness was in the smile on her face, no matter the reasons behind it, to who it was directed to, or who caused it.

But it hurt the distaste in which his mistress would speak of such matters. And if the first name in her mind was of a warrior for whom she had no interest in, what chance would have Diaval, being so close to her?

"He is a brute," his mistress' tone continued indignant, as if irritated by simply thinking about the possibility, "I have no use for those who do not trust those I do."

That made Diaval pause and raise his eyes to her. Surely Borra didn't express any thoughts of fondness and civility toward Diaval, keeping a safe distance from the moment they were presented to each other. But that wouldn't prevent his mistress of choosing him, would it?

_Why?_ Diaval thought to himself. Borra's opinions on a servant would matter to Maleficent? However close their relationship had become over the years, a mistress _shouldn't_ care if any potential mate had no respect for her servant.

It isn't so as servitude went on?

Diaval ought to ask, "Mistress—"

Maleficent didn't allow him, and asked instead, "Does this probing has a destiny or your intention is to annoy me?"

Her fingers drummed on her staff, the most obvious sign that her patience had come to an abrupt and cruel end.

Diaval lowered his head, and his voice sounded less than a startled whisper, "Forgive me."

Maleficent sighed beside him, long and deep, and the air coming out of her lungs joined the pain of her past and the present of her traumas.

"Love doesn't always end well," she repeated what she once told Aurora, which also came to be what she has been telling herself over the years.

Diaval frowned, puzzled, yet his gaze remained down, "It did to Aurora," he reminded her. He hoped for the moment when she saw herself as worthy of something so beautiful. He wished for her happiness more than anything he ever dared to wish for himself, and he would give anything to have a glimpse of the moment she would find the peace she seemed so much to seek.

"The little beastie was blessed to be loved by all who meet her," Maleficent said in a touch of her ever-present skepticism, "I'm not her."

It hurt Diaval to hear his mistress' voice turn so low in despicability, and his heart ached for her. She sounded like she was trying to convince herself, or at least as if she had spent many years trying to convince herself that love was not what she wanted and definitely not a need of her very soul.

"Anyone would be _honoured_ to have you," Diaval, in turn, sounded like he was defending her honour. He was not determined to make her accept the possibility of a mate—that was her choice alone and he would kill himself before he dared of thinking of taking anything from her. Yet, he wanted to make her understand that she was more than worthy of all the love in the world, "And certainly you—"

"I never needed a mate before," Maleficent told him with conviction, "I wouldn't need one now."

A frown tool place on Diaval's face. He felt slightly offended his mistress would insinuate that, to him, happiness could be only found on a mate. Sure in nature that was the belief, and human society followed the same thoughts, but Diaval saw in romance a beauty too much greater than the simple act of perpetuating a legacy—it was a choice to love, to care, to build and to share.

Choosing solitude instead wasn't a sin. Great deeds could be achieved in or out of love. His mistress was scarred, and she knew. The denial of a mate was, without a doubt, related to the traumas, yes, but he was well aware she had no immediate need for another. She knew very well how to take care of herself—it was indeed what he most admired about her, the way power flowed through hands so gracefully, how she held her chin high in pride and fear of nothing, a beauty that none could match, snow-white skin, rose lips, eyes bordering on the shades of one leaf in spring and another in the fall, and her soft yet sharp voice that could make him tremble, and her wings so magnificent and large and long-feathered and black in color that he had the unbelievable privilege of preening them. His mistress was magnificent as the name bestowed upon her, and if allowed Diaval would spend hours simply memorizing every detail of her endless perfections. Her fragility was present on the only necessity of her life: Aurora, and after three chaotic days, having the young queen see her as a mother was what stilled Maleficent's heart. As for the romantic love of tales, Maleficent seemed to easily dismiss the idea of sharing her life with someone else.

"I didn't mean it like that," Diaval made sure to explain.

Maleficent arched an eyebrow, "What did you mean then?"

Diaval was unable to look at her, and took his time, and she allowed him gather courage enough to speak again of what his thoughts were about.

"You adore little ones," he recalled, not necessarily shy, nor too daring, yet on the verges of a whisper, "Don't deny it."

To his surprise, his mistress didn't even try, "Is that a misdeed?"

Diaval's eyes widened, "No!" he exclaimed, his hands waving in from of him, shielding his body not from upcoming spells, but from a challenging gaze, "No, no, no, uh . . . "' his cheeks burned and his throat was dry, "I was . . . _wondering_ if, well . . . " his voice was small and his hands trembled, " . . . maybe . . . "

"Maybe _what_ , Diaval?"

His mistress was exasperated, any traces of patience long ago, although no anger resided on her demeanour.

After a beat of a heart, Diaval raised his eyes to pour into hers, and the weight of his honesty took her breath away as he finally asked, "Have you ever thought of little ones of your own?"

He . . .

. . . Did he really?

"Diaval . . . "

_Children?!_

Of all possible things, Maleficent was irritated by such a simple question. She thought he was sick, or needed help, or that he had seen something that deserved her attention.

Never had he asked her about something so intimate. He had asked about her will, yes, but of her past he knew when she told him about it, the result of his respect when not pressing her with undue questions.

And indeed, if he'd dared to ask her this at any other time than the present, Maleficent would have turned him into a raven. Not a worm. Not a wolf or dog. Not even when he confronted her about she handling of his questions— _"Mistress, every time I say something you don't like, you change me!"_ —she didn't think of turning it into anything but his natural form. Not even in her darkest moments of anger and sorrow. For she would never target him for her pain. The target had been Aurora, and the regret she felt was immediate, even though it took years to admit it. To Diaval, she never wished any ill. It would make no sense to harm a creature whose life she had saved.

But it was still surprising, as now, in the face of a totally unexpected question.

Maleficent sat there, wide-eyed, and said nothing for what seemed like a long, ardently quiet time.

Then, "Me . . . as a mother?"

Of little ones? Small faes with wings that need preening and horns barely grow?

And she as their _mother?_

"Don't be so flabbergasted, mistress," Diaval said, "Aurora sees you as the mother she loves so much."

"And I love her," she proudly stated, "yet it wasn't me who sang her to sleep. It was you."

_That_ was an accusation.

Diaval swallowed, and proceeded on blabbering explanations, "She would cry for hours whenever a storm happened, and no one would do a thing about it! What else was I supposed to do?"

His mistress' eyes were playful, to his confusion, as he didn't seem quite sure in how to read them. Jests and mirth had many paths of taking place according to her.

"You did well," but his mistress was kind, and polite, whenever she felt worthy of being.

There was a time, days after her curse struck her heart, that she would watch the little beastie all the time, knowing that the three idiot pixies would kill her for their mere carelessness. They complained all the time, but would sigh at the treasures promised by the king as long as they cared for the daughter he never tried to love, a child he simply saw as a symbol of the conquest of his crown. Maleficent, such was her hatred, took upon herself the responsibility not to let the girl die cruelly, for cruel enough was the curse. Little things, such as feeding her the milk of flowers and singing her to sleep, she had Diaval do it, even though she knew she could do it herself, first because the three stupid pixies would not even realize she was the one to do it, secondly that Aurora would not be frightened at her, so innocent the way she was.

This inevitably created an incorruptible bond between the girl and her servant. He would treat her as his child. Ravens were easy to love, and they took care of each other. Maleficent thought to warn him, so that her servant would not develop any attachments for the girl, for they only cared for her well-being so that one day she would die, as meaningless as that might be. Diaval either told her that he was just obeying her orders, or that he found the three pixies to be so stupid that it was a matter of honour to do a better job than theirs. Maleficent had laughed at this, because nothing else she could do.

When Diaval stopped hiding that he enjoyed playing with the girl, Maleficent was unable to forbid him. She would spends her days watching them play, always in the shadows, far enough away not to be noticed. Aurora loved her pretty bird. He had been an excellent caretaker, and Aurora found in him a first friend to her walks in the woods, a guest to her tea parties, a listener to her stories. She would copy his grin like a mirror, and on her grace was reflected the grace of a raven flying through the skies. Diaval had in the young queen the _little one_ he swore to protect at all costs and Maleficent couldn't fault him at all. The beastie swept their hearts with her innocence and warmth and they loved her greatly.

Loving Aurora, however, made Maleficent understand that she would have to accept all the people in her life. So she would avoid snapping when the three stupid pixies offended her with absurd comments; she had agreed to join Philip's family for a dinner that turned disastrous; she didn't kill Ingrith, for the young prince's pain was already too much, and his pain would mean Aurora's pain, and in the face of a massacre on their wedding day, Maleficent would not add salt to the open wound.

But it wasn't her love for Aurora that made her accept Diaval. She accepted him for himself. For the things he did, for the courage he showed, the affection he felt, and the passion of his will and words. He was a principled creature, her beloved raven, and Maleficent would never fail to admire all he had done for her.

To admit what he had done was also to admit what she had failed to do.

Maleficent was not ashamed to do so. Being a mother was not simply loving a child. Maleficent considered herself lucky that Aurora had forgiven her for the curse, for allowing her continue in her life, to continue to protect her, and her heart rejoiced more than ever before when the young queen claimed that she, Maleficent, was her mother.

As to the rest— _children_ —she did not believe would be good enough for them.

"I'm not . . . " She tried to articulate and it weighed on her chest, not her pride, having to admit the following, "To be a mother would require a lot more than I can offer."

Diaval naturally disagreed.

_Emphatically._

"You give yourself too little credit, mistress."

A short laugh formed in her chest, and she asked, "Do I?"

Diaval gave her a very elaborate list, which required a prior thought that made Maleficent want to question his motives, "You're kind and protective," he began, and it was as if the sincerity in his voice not only made her believe him, but it made her recall each moment in which she demonstrated said attributes, "Loving too, despise the way you act against it," the pair shared a small smile, "Any child would love you as their mother."

Maleficent's smile turned fond, her eyes revealed in warmth, similar to the one she gave him when he, so hurried and worried, ran to her as she returned from the Dark Phoenix form, "Silver tongue," she said and Diaval's smile turned into a grin of playfulness.

"I only speak the truth, mistress," He said.

And she believed him, "Is that what you wish?" she couldn't help but ask, as the matter seemed of so much importance to him. People usually judge the wish of others based on their own. Ravens were creatures of family, against the beliefs of men who thought of them as ill luck. Ravens represented honour and devotion and playfulness. Surely the adjectives to define her servant himself, and so, if he wished for his mistress to build a family, what of him? Did he wish for one?

And why such thought would gawn the bones of her chest, squeezing her broken heart to beat faster?

"What _I_ wish?"

Diaval didn't understand her, and Maleficent regretted ever asking him of this. She suddenly had no wish to continue.

"Children," but he had kindly spoke his mind to her, and so she owned him the same kindness, "A mate."

Surprise shook Diaval to his very core and he raised from his seat beside her, walking past the burning bonfire. He sounded conflicted, not offended had Maleficent first deduced, and was talking fast and with a firm voice.

"No!"

_Yes._

"I'm happy here with you."

_More than anything._

"There is no place I'd rather be."

_For by her side he would be happy, but eternal happiness would be if she could accept him as more than a servant._

He turned to her and the passion in his eyes startled her, "I'm here because I want to be."

Maleficent pursed her lips, unsure in how to give voice to her thoughts.

Against her better wishes, she spoke, "Isn't a mate to a raven the most important thing?"

"Well, yes," Diaval replied almost too rapidly, "The survival of our species."

Maleficent narrowed her eyes at him. Such words wouldn't do. There was no true belief in them.

"Families do not necessarily involve survival," she said, "Or so I was told. By _you,_ nonetheless."

When she was complaining about why Aurora would need a husband if the survival of her species wasn't in question, and then Diaval told her that marriage to humans had nothing to do with survival, but love and passion and all the foolish things his mistress didn't believe in.

"I must serve you, mistress."

A flare of fire was born inside the core of her heart. Doubts awoke in there, darkness in undue questioning, magic singing in her ear. Pride was weeping and wounded, and a certain humiliation was growing, fast and cunning, and Maleficent fet forced to act.

"You don't own me anything, Diaval," she spoke, and her voice raised in volume for the first time since that conversation took place, "You've paid your debt."

And if before she had feared that he had been offended by her words about wanting to have a mate, the mere insinuation that his honour had been repaid without his knowledge certainly offended him more than anything else.

In other words, Diaval looked _horrified_.

"I certainly _did not!"_ he exclaimed passionately, "You saved me from Queen Ingrith's guards! I have this debt to repay!"

Maleficent tightened her grip around her staff. So the warmth and affection to hear from her darkest thoughts, the boldness to tell her when she was wrong, the respect shown for her power and individuality, and the care in preening her wings, all of those were only a result of his sense of duty?

"It may never happen," she tried to reason, and her servant _scoffed_ at her. Certainly not the first time. How many times had she told him things he did not believe to be true, for either the truth was bluntly espoused on her face and actions, or he knew her to the point of knowing what she said was far from the truth.

Now, he didn't seem to care for anything but his own thoughts.

Needless to say, Diaval didn't give a _fuck_ about duty.

For it _wasn't_ about duty.

"So be it," he said, and it seemed he was contradicting his mistress' logic out of spite, "It doesn't matter."

Maleficent did not understand such disregard for something so prized by any sensible creature: the freedom to love. To share one's life with someone to the point of having children was so absurdly important and essential to the life of a raven that the fact he refused to pursue it, giving way to a duty that was no longer his own, made no sense. Maleficent would never take his opportunity to be happy with someone else, even if it cost her so much to give in. She was selfish, she would not deny, and giving up what her heart claimed as her own wounded her pride. It took time to learn to accept that Aurora was no longer a little girl who needed to be taken by the hand. She wouldn't know how long it would take, or if it would ever happen, to accept another woman in Diaval's life. For that would result in having to learn to be polite to said woman, to pretend smiles and give into 'small talk', and ultimately not being able to do anything but watch as everything that Diaval had offered her all these years was devoted exclusively to someone else. The mere thought made her want to kill said faceless woman, but she pushed such thoughts away as quickly as they came into her mind.

She had no right to take from her servant the opportunity to find love.

"You need to be free to find a mate, Diaval," she articulated, and even if she didn't want, in her heart, to convince Diaval to accept freedom, it was only fair, "You can't serve me and care for her at the same time."

Her servant ignored her logic and his reason completely.

"I can when _you_ are her!"

And only realized what he had said when it was too late.

". . . what?"

And he panicked.

"Mistress—"

"Silence."

"Please—"

"I said _silence_ , Diaval!"

And in silence he stood, and his shoulders fell in already declared and accepted defeat. He put his hands over his face in clear, agonizing despair, and no cry was heard. He was ashamed, not of his feelings, but of having expressed them so bluntly and deliberately, as if they didn't matter as much as they seemed. He was foolish for nurturing them to the point that they became too much for his chest, too much to be kept secret, and as they were revealed, he felt the fear of rejection erode his soul, and a deep hatred of himself was born. He would never forgive himself for such a mistake.

The mistake of _falling in love_.

"I'm not a raven."

And he wondered then the point in denying it.

"Neither I am, no more since you gave me the ability to think as— "

"—as a _man?"_

It was a challenge. It sounded like a challenge. His mistress, when she felt trapped, returned the logic of aggression. To the harshness. It was in her nature to be straight to the point, and she hated long discussions. She had no patience for it, and she would not mold herself to others who were unwilling to say what they wanted.

Diaval was used to it.

And he was not afraid of her. And comparing him to the men who hated her was an insult. And his mistress knew that very well.

"I'm not like them!" he exclaimed, "Turn me into a worm, a dog or a stone statue, but do _not_ compare me to them!"

Maleficent's resolve crumbled, and she seemed to recognize the error of her words, but her pride would not let her easily apologise.

Instead, she repeated the melancholy, "Love doesn't always end well."

Diaval took the last bit of courage he had to approach her in two steps, and was surprised to find not the disgust he once imagined, even though he knew that his mistress would not ridicule him for how he felt. She didn't when he expressed affection for Aurora, and wouldn't do it now.

He feared she would hate him, that her traumas would make her never want his presence with her, by her side, which had been sincerely enough for all those years when his love grew and grew in his chest.

But he didn't find hate.

He found disbelief.

And a fear similar to his.

His mistress, the love of his life, was not afraid of him, but afraid of the love he offered her. For she had been convinced for so long that she would not find such, that now that she apparently did, the foolish love of a raven, she was unable to know how to react.

"I won't try to convince you," he said, "Neither would I impose anything."

He knew she would never love him. Yet he wouldn't let her doubt what he felt. Because he wasn't ashamed of how he felt. He was proud! It was a noble feeling, the love of a raven, and he had showed such love through the years with understanding, devotion and adoration.

His pride would not allow his mistress to doubt such love.

For it was all he had.

"Ravens mate for life," he stated, simple and straightforward, and his mistress' eyes shone with the firelight, oranges like the honey of the sweetness of her soul, "We love those we love," his voice was as passionate as the love he felt for her, "And we don't need more than that."

Maleficent had not yet said a word to him. She was watching him, and seemed to be surprised by his sudden change in behavior, from someone so in love to who seemed ashamed.

"I know you won't—" he couldn't bring himself to finish that sentence. A knot formed on his throat just to think about it, so he reformulated the phrase as if trying to appease his own pain, "—I'm happy as a servant. I don't need more."

This time, he was the one who seemed trying to convince himself that the romances of told tales were not something he needed with every fiber of his being.

"And if I find another?"

She had the right to ask—to test his resolve.

And the passion turned sad, sure of the rejection, a tired sigh into a final sentence, "I want you to be happy."

Not his desire, but the truth in him was unsettling. There was no lie there. And that terrified her. For all her life she had made herself learn to deal with the envy of others—their grudges, their fears, their vanity and greed—for the sins of men were not immune to the faes.

Diaval never lied to her. He never tried to deceive her, never felt fear nor resentment nor envy. Never at her. She couldn't tell about others, but she doubted so, knowing the simple creature he always was.

And to have him there confessing his heart, revealing his soul, and asking absolutely nothing in return, apparently having long ago resigned himself to a fate that would not have had her, the love of his life, by his side in the way he wanted . . .

_Why?_

"Please, don't hate me," he begged and his voice broke, "Turn me into a raven and we can just pretend I never—"

"Silence, Diaval."

It was a reflection, the first of which was her mind, disturbed by thoughts of abundance but very disordered, could think of. She didn't understand, couldn't understand, didn't seem logical to her, didn't seem possible, it was beautiful, it was scary. They were not the same. Their personalities and thoughts differed so much. They had known each other for so long. His feelings were so unexpected.

How come she had never noticed?

His eyes showed feelings Maleficent could no longer witness.

She stood abruptly.

"Mistress?"

And walked past him without saying a word.

"Mistress, where are you going?"

And the anger, a long time friend, came back to full force.

"I don't own you any explanations."

And she left the nest and flew away.

_"Mistress!"_

And ignored the cry in her chest.

_"Mistress, please!"_

And she was no longer there to hear a plea:

_"_ _. . . please, don't leave me here!"_

* * *


	2. dreams that have flown down the hall, screams that were sown on despair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thank everyone for the kind reviews and for waiting this long. As most reviews talked about the Dark Fae culture, I felt compelled to go deep into that --- good thing that the story actually needs it. Which also means this chapter it's naturally extremely long and filled with details because I apparently can’t write anything short, and it became so long that I had to cut it in two parts. So, this story has 3 chapters, not 2 has I originally planned. The last chapter will come by the end of the week. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you have a nice reading!
> 
> Oh, and I would recommend reading the first chapter again but here it comes a lot of information.

* * *

It is said that without a sense of appreciation, the capacity for lifelong learning begins to be muted.

Thus, wisdom begins in wonder.

The Dark Fae hold wisdom on their own. Mind you, they were not ancient creatures—but certainly old enough to have gathered knowledge about the world around themselves, unlike the giants who built the now ruins that occupied the former capitals of the world. And all knowledge came in the name of survival, and wisdom was crafted from it, and they were the ones to teach some of the wisdom to humans themselves had, although the same foolishness could be found in both species. Wisdom is as the green leaf in winter—rare and of great value, but of bare use if there is nowhere to find it. So the Dark Fae told stories, and from them they learned, and the wisdom of their ancestors guided the young—the strongest were sought for advice because they were survivors, and survival was the only future that an almost endangered race could hope for.

But pain did not let them cause more pain, for it is not the ability to cause pain that made them fragile, but what they did with that pain.

And pain has only two paths, the wisdom of the Dark Fae says.

If you can face it, body shaken and alone, then you have courage, which leads to wisdom. But if the pain caused to an innocent causes the victim to harm another innocent, there is injustice.

And of _injustice_ —Maleficent knew much. She suffered from the very nature of it—from her lonely childhood with creatures fearing her actions due the human nature of her blood; humans cursing her name and placing bounties on her head due the magical nature of her appearance; her own race ignoring her presence due the impure nature of her being.

Yet she has indeed been the cause of many injustices herself due her lack of wisdom. For many years she fought a battle of no reason, finding amusement in a king's suffering while he did not care about the suffering of his own kingdom. This fuelled the ire of an army against both fae and king, as their names were cursed by man and creature for the selfishness of their acts.

It was ironic to think that so much suffering, so much injustice, was born with the pain caused to her.

But how it was humans say, again? An eye for an eye, they say, and now they claimed to follow a faith of loving thy neighbours as themselves.

If they followed such commandments it was certain that many did not, but the Dark Fae would not deny that there was wisdom to be found even in the decadent humanity that caused so many problems.

And of wisdom—Maleficent knew little.

And so she asked herself for how long this would do.

For of fear she knew much and sometimes fear would overcome any wisdom she may have left, and so she flew aimlessly, restless, unable to find a single place calm enough to let her land and think, for the only place that had made her feel at peace was the place she had just run away from.

The sea was a keeper of secrets. The stars in the sky were guardians. The clouds had long since faded with the force of the wind, and the waves crashing on the rocks brought the scent of salt to her lungs, and the sight of the moon's reflection on the horizon was comforting.

Standing by the sand, the Dark Phoenix took a deep, unsteady breath.

The loneliness she felt was fruit of fear, which brought forth inevitable anger. Wonders on why she felt so alone, why guilt would eat away the bones around her heart, accusations screaming in her mind, memories flashing through her soul, and the usual darkness of her heart whispering plans and revenge.

She has been alone even since she was but a little one, no more than an abandoned soul to a fate in a world dominated by those who killed her parents. And to voice her lack of fortune, she was also ignored by the creatures of the forest, and by those who had saved her life, by her own kin. In early years, she tried to find reason for the abandonment, to justify in herself the guilt for the abandonment, and for many years she blamed herself for the abandonment.

Wisdom to answer those questions was gained through the pain of betrayal—and abandonment itself. For what would a baby know about abandonment? She hadn't known her parents enough to miss them.

She had to be abandoned in a clearing, awakened from dreams of hope not by the sunlight, but by the pain of having her trust violated, her wings stolen, and her heart broken.

Eventually she roamed the prairie, her steps uncertain, and the throbbing of her scars did not stop her, for her aim was obvious: revenge for abandonment, for the rape against her trust, and above all revenge for the sake of it. She needed a reason to breathe again—to lie down at nightfall and raise at dawn, to eat and drink, and to smile, more than anything a reason was needed, as there were plenty of reasons to cry. And if only the death of her enemies would bring her any joy, so be it.

Loneliness persisted—truly and irritably omnipresent.

And then she heard the cry of an abandoned soul similar to hers . . .

Not quite a distress call in itself, but shouts of despair that only someone as desperate as her own could interpret. And perhaps the farmer himself could, and he was glad, for he had succeeded in capturing the creature who had been destroying his crops.

The poor creature nothing more wanted to feed itself and Maleficent allowed her figure to mingle in the high grass, and watched quietly as the farmer grabbed a piece of wood to end the life of his captivated prey: a raven.

_"Into a man."_

The spell came out of her mouth and she could think of nothing else. The bird gained arms and legs, a pointy nose and black hair, his body growing muscles to the point the net once trapping him was ripped by his arms, and the farmer and his dog fled shouting "demon!", each in their own language.

The bird that became a man understood nothing, and tried to get rid of the remains of the trap that had him captured, and Maleficent took advantage of his inattention to make her presence known. She did with care so not to scare him, for she had no way of knowing what reaction he would have to her—whether he would run in despair like the farmer and his dog, or scream like travellers passing through the forest, or would feel paralysed like any human or magical creature when crossing her path, or would cry like the children of the forest had for years before her will and power.

She was taken aback however when the creature held his gaze to hers and no hesitation was shown. His stance of course was of a raven: stout and proud, perhaps a little recklessly, very curious as well. His human form was thin yet strong, his skin would be pale if not for the dirt around him, and there were scars all over his body, giving voice to his natural state and the magic that now ran through his veins.

Maleficent walked in circles around him, similar to a predator watching their prey, but the creature wouldn't allow himself to be treated as one, and didn't lose her gaze for a moment, keeping his eyes fixed on her figure. There was a certain challenge on his ways, a power she couldn't recognise as her own.

Such bravery evoked respect from within her and she stopped walking, giving the creature chance to speak, as he appeared to want to, and so she waited patiently for a question.

_"What have you done to my beautiful self?"_

He sounded offended, and in no way fearful. He saw her as an equal, and stared at her in confusion and, now she could see it bluntly—genuine interest.

Never fear.

Maleficent thought she was yet to face anyone who didn't fear her before she could say a word on her own favour, so she decided to test this bold creature, _"Would you rather I let them beat you to death?"_

His response was preceded by a pause the creature used to look over his shoulder, noting that his tail was missing.

_"I'm not certain,"_ he said, petulant and clearly annoyed.

Maleficent had to stop herself from laughing at such creature. She didn't know if she should consider him a fool for meeting her eyes so closely, _"Stop complaining,"_ she said, almost kindly. She was fond of the bold, of the honest, and specially of those who didn’t fear her out of nothing, _"I saved your life."_

She thought this wouldn't do and that he was going to complain further. To alter his voice, and therefore force her to abandon him.

And she was surprised again. The raven's eyes, now so human, yet uncharacteristically abnormal, a reminder they didn't hold the sins of humanity by showing humility, had shied away, regretful for their arrogance.

_"Forgive me."_

Maleficent searched for his eyes, and he took on that, raising them to again meet hers. She wasn't going to hurt him for speaking his mind, and she wanted him to know of that. She wanted him to trust her.

_"What do I call you?"_ She asked then, never minding his apologise, as she didn't know how she should handle one as this was the first one she had ever received.

The raven man strengthened his spine, pride returning to his voice, and immediately replied, _"Diaval,"_ and as a raven of honour he was, inclined his head in a reverence, _"And in return for saving my life, I'm your servant. Whatever you need."_

Her response was loaded by a sigh of regret for her own foolishness, _"Wings,"_ she said, and her voice almost failed, for it was the first time since the betrayal she had recognized aloud the lack of what she held more precious, _"I need you to be my wings."_

And Diaval, though curious for his mistress' intentions, didn't add anything, hoping she would explain what she meant.

Never again has a moment went by when they didn't share day and night, rain and sun, harvest and snow, warmth and cold. And when it came to those three days without him, it was as if her magic knew a presence was missing by her side, and not even the celebrations of her people, so willing to make her feel at home, seemed to matter. Nor Conall's constant lessons about peace or Borra's insistence on warfare seemed to distract her from the fact that she had not been the one who had been abandoned, but the one who abandoned.

For Aurora and Diaval weren't with her—how was she supposed to feel at home?

Which made the reasons for wanting a servant even more complex. Not only to aid on revenge—Maleficent needed someone who was bound to her will, for then she would know that she would never be abandoned again.

But love of ancient tales, the overwhelming passion, the beautiful act that both men and magical creature saw as the greatest commitment anyone could think of offering, the altruism of caring without wanting anything in return . . . those were not what she hoped to harvest.

Knowing she was the target of such things is confusing just as it causes her heart to beat euphorically.

And so she had to be alone, for how could she ever think of him while he was by her side?

And even so, being alone brought only regret and her heart was aching in longing.

_Diaval loved her._

The fae sighed, and in no way her heart settled. It beat faster than drums of war, blood running wild with the wind, and despair gnawed her bones, giving life, voice and reason to the forgotten and forbidden feeling she didn't allow herself to indulge on for decades.

It made her feel like snapping at herself.

For how in all levels of hell could she not see it before? For it was always there, was it not? Said through timid and at the same time daring actions that showed the same dedication that she had until then, whether rational or not, questioned if only the result of an exacerbated gratitude or nobility out of the ordinary.

But she never dared to think about love.

It was absurd on itself!

Not _love._

_Never_ love.

Let alone love _for her._

For love—how _foolish_ it was.

Yet as the night came to an end, and the sun was born from the horizon and the moon left to its retreat, to remember all the moments they shared together became inevitable, and her reasoning tried to look for clues she had not seen, for the looks she had ignored, for the affection she had interpreted as merely the duty of an extremely dedicated servant.

And the more she remembered, the more everything became so shamefully obvious and explicit that it was an insult to her pride.

_Diaval loved her._

And in so many ways he did.

In the fondness expressed for her presence. The tenderness toward her. Warmth of when trying to calm her down or explain concepts and traditions she couldn't understand or wouldn't allow herself to out of pride. The intimacy earned and shared when being the one tasked to preen her wings. The adoration when speaking of her doings, so proud of her choices, in awe of not only her power, but of her state of not being afraid to be who she was. The devotion when doing whatever she asked. The passion and ardour when confessing his heart. And the pain—the fear of rejection so raw and naked and certain, so sure to be real.

It was suffocating. It burned her soul—screaming at her to come back and apologize while her mind of traumas denied everything and insisted on running to never return.

There were no tears, nor the urge to cry, because there was no sadness in her heart. Neither was there any sense of offense, as her servant certainly thought she would feel for him before his confession. She wouldn't hate him for feeling. For she knew he was sincere and kind and good—she knew he wished her no ill and never would.

There was, however, much surprise at the depth of his confession, as these were not just pretty words, but a heart being exposed, dreams to be told, a soul bared to the cold wind.

Also, the lack of logic annoyed her—it made her head hurt, her blood boil, her magic lose control, and an old tree trunk fell victim to her wrath, shattered after being hit by a blast of greenish fire.

A servant falling in love for his mistress? _Nonsense._ How could he want her so much? Why her—she wanted to ask, to force him to speak his reasoning, even if by the end she was to find none.

Has she ever been affectionate enough anyway, to deserve a love so great that asked for nothing in return? If so, she was not able to recall such moments. Instead of affection, she remembered offering threats to turn him into animals that he detested—threats that had no strength whatsoever, because both knew she didn't threaten before doing something, she just did it—but there were threats still. Diaval would pester her with questioning and logic, and she would turn him into a raven, and he would test her patience with gifts that she ended up wearing as exotic and even macabre rings and necklaces.

And her heart soared at the thought.

_Oh, Diaval._

He had courted her for years without even realizing it. Or perhaps he did realize it, and insisted on doing it to appease his own stubbornness.

Because he already had her in his heart, and he dedicated himself to her out of sheer desire to serve, to be by her side, convincing himself over the years that no love would come from her.

And she, so absorbed in her own pain, did not realize that the love she once sought so much was by her side, being offered to her at no price.

Aurora taught her how to love again. And love the girl she does—it sometimes scared her the extent of how much willing she is to sacrifice anything to keep Aurora safe. When it came to allowing herself be loved by the young queen, it took so many years, for she was never convinced the young queen actually loved her. She deduced that it would be nothing more than a passing curiosity, the silly dream of a little girl who grew up in a somewhat shabby home, raised by three pixies who did not care for her the way she wanted, and therefore she dreamed of the kind and constant presence of a mother, who would tell her stories and kiss her forehead before putting her to bed. She then read stories about fairy godmothers, and saw in a mysterious, horned creature another friend to be made.

Maleficent never expected more than that. She never dared to think that the young princess would see her more than anything but a guardian, and when she kissed her forehead, she did not expect her love to be reciprocal.

It was— _it is_ —and the thought of the young princess as her child made her smile no matter how exhausting her day had been. Aurora was the light of her life. And loving her became natural as the rain falling from the skies on a spring afternoon.

But what protocol to follow when you allow yourself share your soul to another?

Panic was the only response to such a confession.

For there was no one to trust more than Diaval, and loving him would be so easy. The breathe of nature. Warm as fire in winter, joyful as the splash of water in summer, beautiful as the blossom of flowers in spring, and comforting as the fall of leaves in autumn.

Those revelations of love gave birth to all the doubts that she for years tried to find reason.

Diaval brought her food whenever she refused to eat on her own. He would find her gifts, from gemstones to skulls of smaller birds. He cared for Aurora as if she was his own little one. He offered advice when she asked for it, and was patient when she refused to, and knew how to read her mannerisms and jests that demonstrated her emotional state, and did so with such perfection, as someone who has been by her for the millennia, no matter if his own life was at stake, for he trusted that she would take care of him, and she trusted that he would never abandon her.

And he never did, he didn't want to, even given the opportunity to do it fairly. He chose to be with her, and would sacrifice a lifetime of happiness alongside someone who loved him, simply to be able to love the one his heart belonged to.

Such truth did not take long to pacify in her heart.

_Diaval loved her._

And of love—he knew _everything._

_"My lady!"_

Udo was walking to her.

So lost on her own thoughts, she didn't notice his approach.

She was too walking by the beach when the Tundra Fae arrived. It took but a second for Maleficent to realize that she had spent the night thinking, and yet she had not reached a sensible conclusion of what she should do even after hours of solitude at her disposal.

Udo used to fly around by the dawn of the day, not on patrol since that was the duty of the Desert Faes, but on the lookout for any remains of human vessels that used to get lost. When however he saw the lonely figure of the Dark Phoenix standing by the shore, he felt something very strange around her usually calm aura, and flew to her, aiming to offer aid.

As much his kindness was genuine, Maleficent had no need for people to fuss around her. She did not mind his presence, per say, but her features reflected distress and torment in ways Udo himself did not think to see it before, having that the Dark Phoenix, despite of an easily defiant temper, did not usually allow others to read what was going through her mind.

"Greetings, my lady," Udo greeted her cordially, and bowed his head slightly. Maleficent merely nodded in response, and grief wouldn’t leave her the way her eyes wouldn't leave the waves.

Udo quickly read through her, the insightful man he was, "I take all is well?" he asked then.

Maleficent had no time for small talk, and her voice turned to a formal state, "What is it, Udo? Everything in order?"

The Tundra Fae took a place to stand beside the Dark Phoenix, his gaze to the horizon, his voice enthusiastic, "Very much so, yes, my lady. The Dance will soon take its place. Here on this very beach, in fact. As many of the young will join us, I thought it would be best us to choose an open place for flying. The males are quite eager to have a chance to find their mates."

"As they should," Maleficent commented, and thoughts about the Dance would have little interest to her if raised in a conversation a few hours ago.

Now she couldn't help making the analogy.

The Dance, you may ask yourself, was an event in which mated pairs were affirmed, the very first celebration any Dark Fae was to learn about, for it was their very first celebration and the most sacred, as it was the way the Phoenix chose to show her love for the human she had chosen as a mate.

The ritual itself was simple: females would induce a heat (which would increase their fertility to the point that would lay more than two or three eggs per pregnancy) by releasing 'pheromones'—in the common tongue, a strong, distinctive smell that was unique to a fae's personality traits. The male, purred on by the scent that pleased him the most, would respond to the female's calling with his own pheromones, and they would dance—in other words, they would fly together for hours till they were sure of the commitment. Then, they would find a secluded place, usually the male's nest, to mate and lay eggs. If no scent gets a male's attention, he is allowed to try again on the next day. If more than one male is interested on a female, she would propose a duel of honour—a contest of arms to decide which male was the strongest provider.

The festivities lasted for seven days and seven nights, till all possible pairs were affirmed. It was theorised that Dark Fae magic was the one who sought the magic of another Dark Fae that would supplement their own in body and soul, so it was expected to only strong pairs to be affirmed.

A tribal and primitive way to find love, but to the Dark Fae, it was natural. It was them—an essence. Maleficent would not question such methods, as she herself would know that it would be hypocrisy to do so taking her disastrous past choices regarding a mate—one that resulted on her wings being severed from her back. And what to say against the strange methods of her people, if all the few Dark Fae pairs among the clan who had their mates would look so very happy together?

That didn't make it less unnerving to her.

For Diaval has asked what it took to participate those festivities. Later on, he asked her if she had any intentions of accepting the courting of a male.

What his plan all along to dance for her had she said _yes?_

She said _no_ , and sudden sadness had taken over her servant's actions and feelings, and now her heart felt guilty. He was so nervous at the possibility of yes—he took great risk by simply asking. And the response, although true, had buried any hopes he might had. It was no wonder he felt ultimately rejected even when confessing his love. It should be no surprise that he didn't expect her to love him. She literally told him she never would even consider trying.

Yet again, the distaste she expressed was when speaking of men, human or creature, was of those who had no intention of knowing her for more than her power and supposedly beauty.

Diaval refused to be those men. He would rather die over a mere comparison. He wished to court her properly, to carve a way into her heart, and when he realised there was nothing he could do for himself, he suggested she may one day choose another who could, for no matter what his feelings had become, he wanted her to be happy, to be safe, to find the joy of building a family, of being a mother to little ones, to allow herself to be loved again.

And it made no sense to her.

Did he plan to simply stay silent while his dream was taken from him? Had this raven no sense of self preservation? Has love made a fool out of him?

Years would go by after these events, and Maleficent still wouldn't understand the mind of her raven.

And not for lack of trying.

_"My lady, are you certain you feel well?"_

The boldness of the question should not be surprising, as Maleficent was too straight to the point when asking questions, and Dark Faes had no shame in meddling in each other's affairs, as they always considered themselves part of the same being, and therefore took care of each other without limits. They asked about personal things, talked all the time and offered help, a consequence of suffering, where union was more than necessary for the preservation of their species. Maleficent was victim of several questions when she officially joined the Dark Fae, from little ones wanting to touch her wings to young ones asking about Aurora. Older ones would wonder about Diaval and herself. She tried not to feel irritated by the sudden intimacy. She also tried not to be frightened by the willingness of the Dark Fae in helping her in whatever they could—it cost her so much to accept so many gifts to her nest—but what to do when the questions involved whether she was hungry or thirst, if her silence represented her acceptance, or if she really loved the young human queen?

Few of these questions Maleficent allowed to be answered, while Diaval answered all asked him, without however revealing more than he should have when it came to his mistress. He always respected the limits she set, even if it brought him great dissatisfaction.

She sighed and the pain devouring the insides of her heart found a name: _longing_ for the one whose heart apparently belonged to her.

_What to do_ , she asked herself.

_What to do . . ._

"My lady?"

Udo was talking to her again, and his polite and clearly concerned voice made her turn her gaze to him. She said nothing, and Udo's eyes became kind, "Your aura does feel drained. If there is anything I can do to help . . . ?"

Auras are emanations surrounding Dark Faes regarding their emotions. Dark Faes were taught since a young age on how to read each other’s auras for better conviviality. Maleficent held no knowledge on how to do it—yet she was well aware of how she felt.

Drained wasn’t even the beginning of it.

She turned to gaze back to the sea bustling by the winds of the north, the sun already fully unsheltered, and she found herself repeating the words of her raven without realizing it, and the lie behind them was exposed . . .

"Nothing of any real consequence."

She wondered, and could not help feeling guilty, about the possible and many times when Diaval exposed a youthful and willing exterior, when in fact his interior was filled with pain and unhappiness.

How was she ever able to see that from someone she really cared about? Has her trauma made her so absorbed in her own thoughts that she became lazy to the world around her?

What wisdom could come from a creature like her?

"I understand," Udo obviously did not believe a word she said. A thought came to him, and he feigned casualness, "I fear I must take my leave now, my lady," politely, he bowed his head and Maleficent returned the gesture, "I wish you and the crow—"

"Raven," she corrected him immediately, as something natural to her, and her voice increased in volume, as well her irritation.

The Tundra Fae bowed again, reverent, balm on a burn, "My apologies. Allow me to correct myself, and wish you and your raven mate a prosperous mating season, and a well fit Dance."

There was a moment of pause in which Maleficent was silent, and the meaning of Udo's words not lost on her no matter how tumorous the thoughts of her mind were, and she questioned, eyes wide in great confusion, "What did you call him?"

Udo took note of her abrupt attitude, but commented nothing on it, "Your raven mate. I apologise, you don't wish me to refer to him as such? It is simply a custom, my lady. And by the time of the Dance, mated pairs do wish blessings upon other mated pairs, as the purpose of which is procreation. And when it comes to soul bonded mates such as you and your raven mate, it is a duty to wish— _my lady?"_

It was obvious she had stopped listening when the words _'soul bonded mates'_ reached her ears. Her breathing became more evident and accelerated, panic taking over her soul, and she, in all her regal and usually quiet posture, became more guarded, as a reality so gigantic and beautiful and absurd and natural opened the way inside her mind, making her give in to what her damned pride, and no longer the trauma, didn't want to give in.

It took awhile for the truth to be administered by her mind, and when it happened, it was not pretty.

" . . . soul bonded," and once again faced with a concept she did not know, Maleficent found herself repeating words, and even thought of questioning further, but interrupted herself from abrupt opinions voiced in scurrility. She tried to ponder on proper words, because the concept of what she was dealing with was so foreign that she had no preparation.

The silence was wiser on her part, since she also had no desire to sound disrespectful to anyone who had been anything but reverent and patient. She owed the same consideration.

Shaking her head to ward off the rain of thoughts that fell on her mind, she finally spoke, firm and conscious, "I know not of any soul bond you refer to."

Or at least conscious was what she believed she was, and what Udo doubted, because he frowned at her, although his formerly calm posture became curious rather than confused, "You weren’t told of soul bonds?"

In the face of questioning without malice, but bathed in genuine curiosity, insecurity made Maleficent afraid that her voice would disappear, and her throat became dry, and she tried to compose herself, "Of soul bonds, yes, I know little," she said, and not with as much conviction as before, "But I would certainly know if I shared a soul bond myself. I do not. I have no mate."

Pale eyes grew wide, and true surprise now bathed Udo's features, "No mate?"

"No mate," and she spoke with conviction, "Why do you speak as otherwise?"

Udo opened his mouth to reply, his face almost giving way to a joke, as it would really make more sense that the Dark Phoenix was just playing a word game, maybe a test, he couldn't say much because he didn't know her. What he was sure of was that she claiming not to know about her soul bond was too absurd for him to try to understand, or even believe that it was not a bad joke.

But he stopped to read the sincerity of her voice, the rigidity of her posture, and then watched, cunning wit of his finding interest on how Maleficent failed to grasp the impulsive actions about herself.

A river in the desert.

"I made a question, Udo," and he heard the question and it pushed him out of crazy theories, "To be answered immediately."

The Tundra Fae bowed, again, "Forgive me, my lady. I was merely—" he then paused, and contemplated his own words to follow, and rethought on them, "—I fear I was caught by surprise."

Maleficent followed with a single word, and sharp was her voice, impatient for anything else, "Why?"

Udo’s gaze was on the sand beneath his feet, an observation that hesitated his reasoning, and a small smile formed on his thin lips.

Then he raised his eyes and said, "You are not aware of your mating status with the raven."

A flame was born on her eyes, a green inferno being fed by fear.

Her voice, in turn, was cold as the winter’s breath. Fear was no easily misplaced in the way of reason, and Maleficent sounded so desperately trying to convince herself that what she had just heard was but a jest of fate, "Diaval is not—" the name came naturally, but the next words just couldn't find form, they were so absurd that they seemed to be alive, and her own magic prevented her from proceeding, and her heart was reluctant against the truth that she at all costs tried to deny to herself, "—he is _not_ —"

And nothing came out of her mouth, and she felt foolish and fragile, like a baby who was just learned to babble. Nothing simple was in those words, and at the same time there was, because it seemed so easy for her heart to admit the truth. It was her mind that was indignant, not at the truth itself, but at the ease with which her heart, once so traumatized by memories of distrust, simply accepted to have silly raven as its owner.

Udo tilted his head to the side, curious. He felt sympathetic toward such struggle, having facing them once on his youth, and set out to explain why, to himself and the woman before him, "You cannot say it because your heart knows it is not true, regardless of your denial," and then he offered comfort in a smile, softer, as if saying that there would be no reason to feel ashamed.

_Shame_ was by far not what she felt.

Anger and passion?

_Definitely._

But it made her more furious than anything—furious because she apparently was the only one who didn’t notice.

"Why do you see him as mine?"

Truth be told, she could not think (read _accept_ ) actions that would give others enough justification to believe the opposite of what she was trying to claim. She didn't find any sense she found in the love that the raven felt for her, yet she never considered that others would think she loved him as much—enough to have him seen as her mate. Would it be more logical for the Dark Fae to mock on this love, to laugh at it, because a raven loving a phoenix?

_How quaint._

And so a sceptical look painted the response given, "My lady, you dress your hair and robes with his feathers, and the trophies of his victories adorn the rings on your fingers."

Inevitably, the denial of the situation caused embarrassment, and Maleficent became very sensitive on the raven feathers attached to her hair, on the bird skull rings on her fingers, and touched them unconsciously.

_Oh._

"You truly weren't aware," Udo commented in the most composed way possible—he was almost fascinated, "Which is logical," he continued, speaking to himself, "You never learned on how to read—"

"Raven feathers were a kindness," Maleficent interrupted and spoke quickly on her explanations, "I do appreciate ravens, as I would appreciate any other creatures similar to me, we . . . resemble one another. Those feathers being Diaval’s mean nothing more than a kindness. Unless Dark Fae require only gifts to form a soul bond."

To such rudeness of words, Udo wouldn’t usually conceal a bitter response. Dark Faes didn’t, as the First Phoenix held no thoughts and so her descendants would be no different. There was little reason to act irrationally though, to engage on a battle of words, but a fear so clear clouded any judgement. It was rather typical too—the usual coldness was lost when protection was needed, and to protect herself, Maleficent justified herself; she convinced herself of how meaninglessness the opinion of others were to her.

It was pointless.

"We do not," and Udo had to intervene before any more regretful words were said, "A soul bond is formed by the _spirit_ , my lady," and his voice was louder and more imposing so the importance of what he meant could be felt, for the meaning of his words was as important as his own people, " _Spirits_ are bonds formed by love—shared and cherished. We are taught on reading the strength of _spirits_ from a very young age," his smile grew wide at his own memories of childhood, "The stronger the love shared, the stronger the _spirit_ becomes, and the more we can read them. Those considered the strongest are called _soul bonds_. And soul bonds are a blessing like no other, my lady, as most of us won't see half of that. One of the pair was always hunted down before their _spirits_ were strong enough to be felt."

Maleficent felt dread, a knot on her throat, her voice becoming harsh. It took her a few seconds to ask, " . . . what of the other mate?"

Udo's expression became sad, "A _spirit_ rarely survives without the ones who make them alive. They do if the pairs has little ones of their own. If not, it is rare for the remaining mate to survive alone. Death is often preferable."

Maleficent raised her chin, a sign that she would speak arrogantly, and questioned, "I was killed by Ingrith and Diaval was not distraught that he would rather have died."

_Unfair_ to say that with Diaval running up to her like a lost puppy and his eyes shining with so hope and joy and pride, and seeing him for the first time in three days made her sigh, because heavens, _she missed him_ —but it wasn’t like she was able to think rationally, and so she didn’t realize how contradictory it was to be against the concept of having Diaval as her mate while being irritated that Diaval hadn’t preferred death when in face of hers, a sign that he was her mate according to the Dark Fae. It was a game of contradictions of unravelling in infinite pieces, years of resistance being destroyed on a breath.

Udo found it rather amusing.

"Diaval is no Dark Fae," he clarified, "He cannot read _spirits_ , nor feel the shatter of soul bonds, even if his," and while still noticing the reluctance, doubt and uncertainty, he came to repeat what one day was said to him, "But I do feel it," and commented in a subtle way, trying not to scare Maleficent at what he would say next, "We all do, my lady."

And if her pride was already hurt because she had never noticed the feelings Diaval had nurtured for her all these years, to face that she also did not notice how a soul bond had been formed between them, so great that no Dark Fae would question it, so beautiful that every Dark Fae seemed to admire it, and so powerful that it made her magic more powerful, so pure that it made her tremble, well, it made her furious.

_At herself._

What to expect of someone who has denied herself the opportunity to feel for so long? The fear on her actions did not go unnoticed.

It was not the idea of loving him that baffled her, but the ease with which her mind adapted to that scenario—it despaired her, and how she did not realize that she acted in a way that ended up giving her raven the hope that she could love him, and herself saying that she would never be able to do it, not for lack of will, but for lack of knowledge.

Questions tormented her soul. Because of love, what did she know? 

And why did she tremble with fear at such things?

Maleficent sighed without realising, a result of several memories forming before her eyes, flashes of sunny days, a raven playing with a girl with golden hair, and a fae in black robes hidden in the branches of a tree, just watching the scene, her small, unusual family, the one she always wanted to build, the one she didn't realize she had built.

And with a raven, on top of that.

"My lady?"

Her eyes turned to him.

"Magic can be sought in a variety of ways. The magic of _spirits_ has been passed down to us, from generation to generation. Do you wish to learn on how to read them?"

And Maleficent can do nothing but nod and accept the offer so kindly made.

"Show me."

The sage extended his hands, "Allow me to hold your hands, and my forehead to touch yours, so that my knowledge is passed on to you, just as Conall did once."

The Dark Phoenix seemed to hesitate for an instant, and Udo thought she had decided against her own will, but in the end she gave in. Her staff rested by the sand and Udo held her hands, and taking a step closer, his forehead touched hers, eyes closed.

A wave of magic enveloped them, and the sand on the beach rose together with the sea water.

"Now think of him," came the instruction, "Reach for his soul."

Maleficent pressed her eyes closed, brow frowning in concentration, and her mind seemed to burn with magic now being impregnated into her soul.

The result was catastrophic to any walls she might had built around her heart. For her wings spread with the song of birds above the fields of harvest, and the cry of dogs and men. Her lungs heaved in ardour and passion with the dragon's gnashing teeth when spitting fire. Her mind travelled to the howling of the pack before the moonlight and iron soldiers. Her body was filled with chills at the power of a black bear’s grunt in the middle of a battle. Her heartbeat as the horse waltzing on the prairies. Finally, she heard the roar of a lion, felt the warmth of his mane, and the strength of his muscles and the passion of his actions.

She felt love more than ever before, more than she could dare of hoping, more than even one day she found herself worthy of receiving, and it enveloped her body and surrounded her soul and embraced her heart till she forgot to breathe.

She opened her eyes suddenly, and took unsteady steps back, her wings wrapping around herself in a cape of feathers.

Udo said nothing—he smiled respectfully, joining his hands behind his back and waiting for the Dark Phoenix to say the first word that would break the almost unsettling silence that had been established.

She didn’t. She breathed heavily and her skin felt warm, sweating and burning—body shaking, and in no way did her wings could calm her heart, which was beating wildly against her chest, and lonely ached for someone who was not there.

She was startled and lost.

Words lacked to describe what she felt, and so it was vain to try to say them. For how the infinite, the no end, the extent that it seemed impossible, could be reduced to a single phrase, a single word?

It was enough to feel, and she did now, the dimension of _love_ —similar to the force of a hurricane, and instead of trees and life, the resistance she had built around her heart was destroyed, walls falling apart like sand of pillars when the waves arrive. She felt fragile, yet not weak. Tired, ultimately. And so, so precious, worthy of absurd care, overwhelming passion, unconditional love that gave place to colossal happiness. She wanted to laugh, because it was so simple. It was always so obvious—such a wonderful and beautiful and pure and gentle and true.

But she had no idea what to do with it.

For there was no doubt now. There couldn't be.

_Diaval loved her._

So, so much.

What to do?

The fear that corrupted the chains around her heart laid broken at last. Which gave way to tears falling freely down on her cheeks, and it was so sudden and unexpected that she only realized when a drop ran down her parted lips, and the taste of salt similar to the sea touched her tongue. Raising a trembling, pale hand, she touched her tears, and she regretted that the one who loves her was not there to wipe them away.

And although extremely practical, Maleficent felt the need for a curse to be placed upon herself, because, "How?" she asked out of spite at her magic telling and showing and making her feel with such intensity everything that her raven had in his heart, it was very difficult for her to reason something that only her heart could tell.

"Love and intimacy are not exclusively romantic, as you well know," she heard Udo approach her cautiously, and her expression was filled with melancholy that she didn't bother to hide. The Tundra Fae smiled then, sympathetically, "To reach the power of the Phoenix, however, it required a bond of decades, at least. Only a Dark Fae whose _spirit_ was strong as yours could reach such perfection. For when we are born, our souls endlessly look for the one that will live in our hearts," suddenly, Udo’s eyes conveyed great sadness and longing for a friend who was no longer there, "Conall knew of that—he was watching you. We felt your _spirit's_ strength and what a curious sight that was, yes? A Dark Fae mated to a raven, and a human woman as their offspring."

"It doesn’t bother you," she had wondered why the Dark Fae had accepted Diaval under no complains, while not sharing the same appreciation when it comes to Aurora, to whom Maleficent had been open in her maternal love. Seeing her servant being greeted with smiles and curious questions, on the same level as she had been, caused her an enormous sense of inquiry, but she had little time to look for the reasons behind this peculiar behaviour. She deduced they were merely curious at his shapeshifter abilities.

Now she understood—they treated him as an ally, or the few who didn't like him wouldn't dare disrespecting him openly, because the soul bond they shared had him as her mate, her equal, and if a simple raven was capable of loving a Dark Fae so intensely, he was worthy of respect.

"Diaval is . . . quite an interesting one," the admission made Maleficent look at Udo with a frown, and the Tundra Fae cleared his throat, fearing his choice on an adjective had been poor, "He is much like us, my lady. Loyal and of principle. Speaks his mind to everything. It’s no wonder he seemed to fit so well amount us. Or why the little ones adore him."

Remembering how happy Diaval was at being able to play with the little ones, Maleficent ended up smiling, and her heart was filled with affection at the memory, "Indeed."

Udo just nodded, and waited for Maleficent to ask him more.

She didn't.

For although her thoughts never left her raven within those hours she spent on the beach, for the first time her mind took her to how her servant begged for her not to abandon him, not to leave him behind again, and to understand what she had done, leaving him there all night with no answer, she didn't imagine what he might be feeling—she literally felt his agony, and the loneliness she felt gained reason, not just at her for not to having him with her, but to know that he was also without her.

And so she finally asked herself:

_Why am I not with him?_

"Father!"

A Tundra Fae, barely nine to ten summers, was flying desperately towards them, his wings flapping without any coordination, so clumsy due to his despair that he ended up falling on his face when he tried to land. He was too too young to fly as fast as it seemed.

_"Lito!"_

As Udo rushed to the little one and helped him unto his feet, Maleficent immediately became alert, her staff back flew to her hand, steading herself, and her own problems were put aside for the moment. She could sense the agony of that little one, and it distressed her to think of anyone daring to harm such an innocent.

Ironic taking her past, she knew.

"Father, stop!" the little one complained as Udo examined him for any wounds. He then licked his thumb and wiped the blood off the small cut on little one's right cheek. The boy grimaced and squirmed, but Udo grabbed him by the shoulders, and continued to check for injuries, this time on his snow-coloured wings.

"I'm fine, Father!" the boy stated, "I had to find you!"

"No excuse, Lito," Udo scolded him gently, "Why the rush landing? You could have broken your wings."

The boy shook his head, and kept protesting, "But Father!"

"No excuse."

The boy's eyes widened when they saw the Dark Phoenix. Udo got to his feet and put a trusting hand on his son's shoulder, giving it a little squeeze, urging him to say his greetings.

Lito instead exclaimed, "Dark Phoenix! You're here!"

Maleficent smiled slightly with the sincere awe in that boy's honey-coloured eyes.

"Tell me, little wolf," Maleficent moved her fingers over the boy's cheek, and the wound healed in a flash of golden magic, "What are you in such a hurry you risk harming such beautiful wings?"

Lito took a moment to breathe, his chubby cheeks burning in red, "B-beautiful?"

Udo chuckled, "Answer the question, Lito."

The boy seemed to remember what prompted him to fly in such a hurry, "Yes!" he turned to his father and said, "A duel! Mother was there and—" the boy's breathing became more laboured, not because of tiredness, but because of the despair that began to take hold of him. His eyes were filled with agony, "It's getting badly, Father. Blood, and spears and Dali took one look and—" he mimicked a vomiting sound, "Mother sent us back to the nest. Big brother got us there. But I wanted to see the duel. So I hid when Hiro wasn’t looking."

Udo raised an eyebrow, "And why openly confess this to me?"

Lito didn’t seem to follow the logic, "You said things wrong, we find you and—"

"A duel of honour, you say?" the little boy nodded, "And your mother is there?" another nod, "Then traditions were respected, Lito. There is nothing I can do about it, however brutal it must have been and," his gentle expression turned into a serious one, "and your mother was right: little ones are not allowed at duels of honour. You should’ve go to the nest. Your brothers must be very worried about you."

"But Father! It ain't fair!" the little boy pulled away from his father and his eyes become more desperate as he turned to Maleficent, "Dark Phoenix—Ma'am—My lady—"

"Maleficent," and she could tell that the boy was trying to be too polite, probably following his parents' instructions, but his brain was still full of the energy from his flight, and so his thoughts came to his mouth without any filter.

"Maleficent," the boy repeated with a firm, respectful nod, "Do you care for Borra?"

The fae raised an eyebrow, stealing a glance at Udo before asking, "Why do you ask?"

"He was angry. Borra was angry!" Lito’s little frown would be considered adorable if not for the seriousness of the situation, "He attacked! Very, very, hard! And over and over and over again and—" his voice broke, and his eyes turned to the Dark Phoenix, now seeming to hold an accusation, "—Diaval is good! He plays and tells stories! You care for him too? He is not a warrior—"

"Hold, little one," Udo grabbed the boy by the shoulders, and looked him straight in the eye, "It is Diaval the one Borra challenged?"

Lito nodded twice, "Yes, Father! But Diaval said _no_ and Borra hurt him and no one helped! Mother said he deserved to die and that’s wrong and I thought—"

He couldn't finish explaining. A strong wave of wind hit them both, to the point Udo had to embrace Lito so the boy wouldn't fall to the ground.

And the speed at which the Dark Phoenix flew away was equivalent to the strength of a hurricane.

* * *

Borra considered himself a good male. As much as possible to his breed and size, he tried to show his strength and potential—he had a lot, as it was the duty of the strong to protect the weak. Borra has proved over the years that he was an exceptional warrior and caretaker. He was kind to children. They were innocent, and he had no favour in being rude to them. He wasn't good on telling them stories, but he played with them, and he took time to teach them about the various things he had learned through his life.

And similar to children, Borra absolutely did not know how to accept defeat. When he wants something, he gets it—a consequence of a life where one ends up receiving too much praise. The person delights in pampering, and gets used to perks, and when adversity comes, they does not know how to act.

Please, do not take Borra as a bad example. For any other Dark Fae, Borra was worthy of praise for his deeds, as every child of the desert should be. He fulfilled his role with great pride. He was fast and strong, and his wings were well cared for. He was the target of the attention of several females, something natural taking into account how many times he has already demonstrated that he can be a good provider.

However, he refused to take a mate. As much he wanted to, it would be dangerous to care for a family in a world that could take them from him in the blink of an eye. Borra knew very well that he could not fight for his people if he had a mate and little ones to worry about. He refused to focus halfway. He would either be a warrior and free his people from human oppression, or he would be a provider. He couldn't do both, and Udo once praised him for being aware of it, for wanting to give himself completely to the cause.

And everything was fine to him—he was in no hurry to start a family. He had his people and his brothers, and occasionally a bed partner, but that didn't distract him from his target. He would free his people.

Then he learned of the _sleeping curse._

He had not heard of the story behind it, nor would he care to know of a fae who allowed herself to trust a human. Conall seemed, and always was, more optimistic about who this female might be, and he started to watch her from afar, even risking his own neck so much.

Nothing seemed to be a big deal, until the moment when, many years of struggle afterwards, and the possibility that Peaceforest was weakened, Conall told Borra about the soul bond that a wingless dark fae shared . . .

. . . with a bird.

The strongest soul bond in centuries.

_"This is blasphemous!"_ Borra had complained, _"A raven is an animal, not one of us!"_

Conall did not share such beliefs, _"The Phoenix herself loved a human, and here we are, my friend. Do not forget our origins."_

Borra didn’t and that was the whole point.

_"How could I, if said origins haunt us all the time? What do you intend to do with her? Ask for her help? Does she even know about us?"_

She didn't, but Conall seemed eager to talk to her. And he almost did when the death of the human king came to his ears through the buzz of the bees. The only reason he couldn't was because Maleficent ended up being the one who broke her own curse, and no one believed that a young human queen, being the daughter of a cruel man, could show compassion for such an unknown and yet so hated race.

How to trust Maleficent if they couldn’t trust those around her?

The clan's sages prevented Conall from taking any action and for years his plans were delayed. Borra focused on training new warriors and guard his people—he had no time to foolish hopes on a new leader.

He knew Conall wouldn't give up so easily, however. Convinced by ideals of peace that Borra did not share, Conall saved the Dark Phoenix.

She was unlike anything anyone had ever seen.

_A Forest Fae._

There was none of them left.

_Desert Faes_ were warriors and hunters.

_Tundra Faes_ were sages and artisans.

_Jungle Faes_ were farmers and healers.

_Forest Faes_ were political—leaders to all.

_Maleficent was the embodiment of power._

And Borra was _fascinated_ —by her power, beauty, strength and determination. He saw her love for the young queen as a weakness and did everything to make her forget about it and focus on what matter the most— _their people._ But he knew, deep down he knew, that the refugee she had found on her people made her miserable only because she missed the one known as _Sleeping Beauty_ , but also because her raven was not with her.

Borra could feel their soul bond weakening as three days passed by, but it was still so present that he felt foolish for considering a duel. Later on, peace once impossible was established, and Borra found himself in a world where his strength and agility were no longer needed. He was a warrior in a world without war, a survivor in a world of abundance. But given the huge losses of his people, Borra felt compelled to act, to do something, because stagnation would kill him.

So he proposed _the Dance._

Because he wanted the chance to be able to dance _for her._

The obstacle would be the bird, whose _spirit_ was weak; his aura, almost of all sadness; his love, present yet full of doubts.

Borra would not miss the opportunity.

He waited for the sun to come out, and flew to the nest by the edge of the abyss. He had groomed himself with the best armour one could craft, and his feathers shined. War paint decorated his face and arms and a dagger fell heavy on his belt.

Combing his hair for the last time, he landed by the nest's entrance and spoke, loud and clear:

"Dark Phoenix, may I come in?"

He heard no sound of her voice, nor the flapping of her wings, nor her powerful aura calling for him, and he wondered if he would have to start looking for her elsewhere, or worse, if she would have gone to the human kingdom with the raven creature.

" . . . Borra?"

But the bird abomination was there, by the entrance, and his condition was deplorable: eyes red from crying, sunken from lack of sleep, clothes crumpled from carelessness, and his naturally raspy voice almost became a whisper of so weak.

_Easy prey,_ Borra thought. Pathetic, really. Ravens might have be the most intelligent of birds, but in strength they were much lesser than eagles. And eagles attack suddenly, ambushing their victims, peak and claws ready to kill.

Borra was no different.

"May I help you?" the raven asked him, and the expression on his body showed a zeal that had wisdom, even though his voice was not afraid at all.

Borra grunted, his teeth bared, and his words came out in a snap, "Where's the Dark Phoenix, crow?"

Diaval, not surprised by the lack of politeness, responded, "Mistress is not here—"

"What a stupid way to call her," Borra interrupted him with a growl, not being one to judged the way mates treat each other, but finding no honour in a male who let himself be treated as a mere servant by his female.

"It's the way she wishes me to call her," Diaval replied, and the offense was clear. He would never pretend to have any affection for Borra, since the Desert Fae would not do that either, but he would not be humiliated just because he knew the warrior was stronger. Ravens also had their honour to protect.

Borra knew very well how to exploit this, "Where is she?" he asked harshly, "Do you not know where your _mistress_ is?"

Diaval became restless in his place, and a sigh sadness washed over him. He seemed embarrassed, but he would not let Borra see it in its fullness.

"Mistress didn't tell me where she was going."

Borra barked a sarcastic, dry laugh, "You mean she left you behind."

Diaval's posture dissolved, and his discomfort was evident. He knew that he should not induce a clash full of meaningless jealousy, for Borra was not an option for his mistress, according to her own words, and so there was no point in intimidating a mere servant. Maleficent would never give her heart to neither of them. There was no point in fighting.

However, he would not let himself to be humiliated by a fight that was not his place to be.

"Mistress owes me no explanations," he repeated her words, and his own heart ached when remembering in which circumstances she said those words.

Don't fool yourself, he was upset. His night had been difficult, and he had never cried so much in his life, plagued by thoughts of despair and anguish for hours on end, where he hated anyone more than himself for his recklessness, and blamed no one more than himself for being abandoned.

But never his pain would make him harm another, let alone fear anything, because what he feared most had already happened—Maleficent had left him behind. He would be lucky if she decided to sent him away never to return.

Therefore, he had no time for such a pointless debate. He was not afraid of Borra as he was not afraid of anyone or anything. He had faced wolves and dogs, human soldiers, an iron army, a power hunger king and a mad queen. A Desert Fae would not intimidate him.

Death was the least of his problems.

"Is that all you wish?" he tried to be polite, even if Borra would not.

The warrior didn't even try, and his wings spread, clear the attempted intimidation, and approached in steps steady until his breathing could be felt, "I challenge you for a duel."

Diaval's eyes widened, "A what?"

Borra showed his teeth in a grunt that would have been that of an angry lion, "Do you not have ears to listen, crow?"

Diaval held a sigh on his lungs, and remained steadfast in self control, "I understood what you said, Borra," he clarified, "What I don't understand are your intentions. A duel for what?"

Borra took a lot of air to fill his lungs, his nostrils flared, and his chest heaved in his proud speech, "Tradition grants me the right to challenge any male for a female's affections," and to put more emphasis, he immediately gave a strong push on Diaval's chest, and the crow ended up taking three steps back, and almost lost his balance, "And I challenge you for the right to be Maleficent’s mate!"

Contrary perhaps to what Borra hoped, Diaval was usually unaffected by brutality or violence. Ravens did not engage on battle unless provoked. And although it would take more than an idiot to make them act without any conscience, Diaval felt his tranquillity was gradually losing strength. He may consider himself controlled and mature enough to deal with brutes such as Borra, and yet he had not perfected his patience to the point of not losing it when in face of much disrespect.

He cleaned his throat and spoke out, "I have no idea why you would think me as your rival but—"

"I do not care for what you have ideas about!" Borra grunted a harsh interruption, "I challenge you for a duel. What there is more to say, crow?"

"Raven, not a crow," Diaval stated, and he did it proudly, "And Mistress is not a prize to be won. A duel would mean nothing to her."

"Duels are tradition," Borra argued, "The Dark Phoenix must follow them all as we do."

"I am no Dark Fae," Diaval tried to reason, "Must I follow your traditions?"

Borra’s low voice dropped two tones, reminiscent of thunder in the storm, a closed fist beating against his own heart, "You live among us, eats with us, drinks with us, celebrates with us, has a nest amount us! You cannot disrespect nor ignore traditions as ancient as we are!"

"And if I do decline, what then?" Diaval was the one to challenge this time, "You will kill me and be done with it? Will you force Mistress to accept you? She will never stand for that."

"If you deny," and Borra spit words like a snake spits out poison when it feels threatened, "Then you are not worthy of the Dark Phoenix!"

And need I say he wanted a duel because he felt threatened?

_I believe not._

"What makes you think that I consider myself worthy of her?"

The question implied was: _what makes you think you are?_

And so Borra's wings extended more, so much was his anger, and he bared his teeth, a dog barking at the wrong tree, "A coward is what you are, crow, afraid to duel me!"

"I see not point on it!" Diaval tried to maintain his reasoning. Ravens were diplomatic creatures, in a comical, and above all, practical way. They knew how to choose their battles. And Diaval refused to be reduced to something as low and petty as giving in to the wounded pride of another, "You can leave," he then suggested, "If you wait for her, the choice is yours. I care not either way. My answer will not change. I refuse to indulge on any of this."

And he turned to walk out of the nest and wait near the waterfall, because if Borra wanted to attack him, it would be easier for others to see and help.

To his bad luck, Borra wouldn't take _no_ for an answer.

He grabbed the raven by the collar of his shirt and took off.

Diaval whelped, then screamed, legs kicking and arms trying to break the reach of Borra's hands on his clothes, calls for help getting the attention of the others, who interesting in what was to happen, followed Borra's trail to Sanctuary.

Many were gathered there already. _The Dance_ would only take its place by noon, and therefore the public to watch the duel was mostly of young ones, eager for the fight Borra had promised them earlier.

War cries were heard from the audience, the most enthusiastic pounding their own chests, and drums emitted a tribal song, faster like the beating of a heart that celebrated what one could conclude to be an event of great honour for the Dark Fae.

The sight of Borra flying by and dropping Diaval in the middle of the arena with such brutality caught everyone's attention, including Ini's, who was there waiting, a set of spears and starves meticulously arranged on a wooden rack right beside her.

"Borra," the Tundra Fae watched as the Desert Fae flew to her, a nod as greetings.

"Is everything prepared?" Borra asked as he walked over to the weapon rack in order to choose one of his liking.

Ini was about to answer him when she narrowed her eyes at the sight of a lonely raven in the middle of the arena, "Where's the Dark Phoenix?" she asked instead.

"She wasn't in the nest," Borra hummed to himself as he grabbed a long spear, testing the weapon's flexibility and reach, "The crow doesn’t know where she went, either."

Ini wondered on whatever reasons that might be, and watched as Diaval get up from the floor and dust his clothes, "There can be too many reasons for that," she commented.

Borra snorted, "Which reasons has a female to keep secrets from her mate?"

"I don’t speak of secrets," Ini tried to look him in the eye, trying to make him understand the consequences of his actions, "Mates do not always agree on matters, Borra. The Dark Phoenix could be searching for him right now, for all we know. What will she do to you then, a male who dared harming the mate whose life was shared with her for more than twenty winters?"

The warrior stopped his movements with the spear, and looked at Ini, baring his teeth in a hiss, "It is within my right as male to challenge another male for a female's affections!"

Ini was completely unaffected by the attempt display of power, "Those affections you speak of have lasted more than any known to our clan," and so she reminded him of what he has been ignoring, "The Dark Phoenix was not fond of you purposefully misleading her mate's species, why do you think she would be fond of you challenging their bond?"

"A bond with no children.

I can challenge that. You cannot deny me that."

Ini huffed, "That's not the point! No good shall come from this madness!"

"And what good can come from _that?"_ Borra asked, and the air of arrogance enveloped his entire aura, to the point that Ini made a face of disgust. Borra ignored her, and his vision landed on the lost figure of Diaval in the middle of the arena. The poor raven was being greeted by several young faes, mostly women of no more than thirteen or fourteen springs, and his fear and confusion was so great that he babbled words without being able to formulate a coherent sentence. There is against proof, older faes, but still young, remained in the stands to insult his masculinity. The raven did not seem to take offense at the allegations; not when so many faes talking to him at the same time.

A sense of innocence that irritated Borra much further than he let it show.

"Look at him, Ini," he urged her, "He is an abnormality. His cock won’t even work. How good is a mate who can't give children for his mate to be proud of?"

"They seem rather proud of the queen."

"The queen is human. The Dark Phoenix’s legacy will not be perpetuated through her. She needs true Dark Fae children—little ones to share her power with."

"And you would be her sire?"

"Who better than?" to make his point clear, he hit himself in the chest with a closed fist.

Ini rolled her eyes, but made no comment on that. Borra's nature was to be crude in his sayings, but he knew well about his rights. That wasn’t the problem in hand. Yes, any bond could only be challenged if the pair has no children. A human child is no Dark Fae offspring, and that meant the Dark Phoenix’s bond with the raven wasn’t solidified, not fully, despise the years they had shared together. Ini, a peacemaker to those challenges no matter how violent some of them were to be, was to talk to the contestants and reason with them so they were sure of what they were doing. Today in special, she was having a little more trouble. Not only because Borra refused to listen to reason, but because she knew that the Dark Phoenix would probably end up trying to kill him for his bullshit, and Ini couldn’t allow that to happen, even though Borra deserved a few knocks on the head.

Many did too, they were curious of the outcome of such challenge, explaining why the arena was so filled with people.

Ini internally groaned—she felt the beginning of a headache.

"Why the grimace, Ini?" Borra asked, noting the Tundra Fae’s sudden silence, "I hoped you would feel happy for me. You always complained about me not having a mate."

"I did, but that doesn’t mean I wish you to die."

Borra was silent at that, and Ini knew he was glaring at her, yet she did not back down. She meant exactly what she said. Her words were no longer about wisdom, neither her duty to was to make sure that contestants were certain of their convictions. Borra realized that his old friend had no faith in him—as a peacemaker, Ini thought he would lose.

And that irritated him deeply.

"You believe in my defeat."

Ini sighed this time, and the irritation she felt dissipated a little, and her eyes became sad.

She knew there was no real evil in Borra's heart. He could be absurdly stubborn and rude most of times, but he had good intentions. He loved his people and wanted them safe and well.

But what he wanted to do was madness—delusion—that's what this situation was born from and Ini finally decided it was of no use to try to convince Borra of the errors on his nonsense of a plan.

Sure, it wasn’t that others hadn’t considered this, so to speak. As a peacemaker, Ini was to be approached by any contestant before the challenge was made. She couldn't forbid the duel, but if she understood it was a bad idea, she would try to convince the contestant to give up. She didn't use to do it much because duels were quite rare amount the people. So imagine her struggle when suddenly many young males came to her asking her opinions? Only Ini knew how much she trouble she had convincing those young males that wanting to indulge in a duel because they were charmed by the Dark Phoenix was not a good idea at all.

Though, she didn't blame them for the sudden fascination. She understood—Maleficent was a desirable mate, she was power and Dark Fae were attracted to power as bees were to honey and flowers. And so many young males who wished to win her affections. But Ini had been successful to dismantle their plans with a simple argument: that a soul bond such as this has not been felt in centuries, and so trying to break it would be beyond foolish.

The only one who didn't want to listen to her was Borra. And it seemed ironic that an adult fae would have less wisdom than young ones with barely sixteen springs of life.

What Borra was about to do was ultimately careless, a fruit of his pride, and perhaps stagnation after the battle, Borra was addicted to excitement. Still, it didn't excuse him to act like an idiot. Ini worried for him. For she was sure of the terrible punishment that could come to anyone if they offended such a strong bond that was shared between the Dark Phoenix and her raven—who she prided herself on presenting as _her wings_ —the one who, alongside her, raised the little human thing that now ruled over a kingdom.

Diaval had smiled so openly, so happily and the Dark Fae could do nothing more than welcome him. After all, how could it be any different? A simple raven building such a strong soul bond with the Dark Phoenix herself, of all creatures. And ravens mate for life, so it was certain such bond was built from truth. And the love in his eyes was as clear as day, shining with the sunrise. The Dark Phoenix was much more discreet in her affections, but the fact that she refused to part ways with him said enough. Diaval was her heart, and she was happy with him. Ini understood by observing the pair only once, why the Dark Phoenix had been so lonely the first time she was with her people. Now, although she would sigh, missing the little human every time, consolation could be found by having her love by her side and that was enough for her to smile.

Wasn't Borra so blinded by his own convictions, perhaps he too would see the obvious.

But some people, Ini knew it well, would only learn through pain.

_Lots of it._

"Your arrogance will kill you, Borra," Ini spoke then, a finger pointed to a strong chest, "and you will have no one else to blame than yourself."

Borra grabbed her wrist, uncharacteristically kind, and put her hand down. The Tundra Fae had no struggle to find released from his grasp. She crossed her arms over her chest and raised her chin in defiance.

"Was their love so strong, would I have been able to bring him here?" the warrior asked then, and dug the tip of the spear hard into the ground, a fist closed tightly around the hilt as he took a step closer to Ini, the difference on their height now more evident as he looked down to her eyes and asked, "Would the Dark Phoenix have allowed me?"

"How would she if you say she was not there to allow or deny anything?"

"Because she left!" the warrior hissed, "At the dawn of the Dance! She left him and he denied me a duel!"

Ini's eyebrows raised, so much was her surprise, "He _denied?"_

The warrior smirked, "You can ask him yourself."

The Tundra Fae did as told. She spread her wings and flew to the middle of the arena—to Diaval.

_"Lady Ini!"_

The raven man run to her, and his fear was written in his features. He recognized Ini as the long-haired, white-haired Tundra Fae mted to Udo, the storyteller, and she was so kind to him when on his first night at the Sanctuary, and a feeling of relief washed over his face to see her there.

"Lady Ini, goodness, I’m happy to see you!" he exclaimed and the Tundra Fae smiled at him, "Can you tell me what is going on?"

Borra had landed right behind her, and Ini basically felt the gratifying smile the warrior had on his lips.

"Please, help me," Diaval pleaded, in a whisper so that the people around him would not listen, "I didn't agree to any of this! I wish no part on any duels!"

But the cry for help was answered with silence, and the Tundra Fae stared at him for a long time.

She was discredited. A raven so devoted to his mate would give up such a powerful soul bond overnight? She remembered them the night before, shared meals, laughs and feathers. She saw the jest on his eyes when offering grapes to his mate, the tease when refilling her goblet, the trust, the care when insisting that she eat more of the stew prepared for her. And she saw the jealousy showed to young ones crossing the sky, and the protection showed by not allowing anyone his mate didn't trust to approach her.

And suddenly, it was all gone?

Ravens mated for life, it couldn't be all gone. Denial was the same as refusing to fight for your love. Those who denied gave up on the commitment. And so Ini was unable to understand, she found no logic in such a sudden change, and even though she found it strange that the Dark Phoenix was not with her raven by the dawn of the Dance, there must be another reason on why Diaval would vehemently deny a duel.

A possibility came very quickly to her mind.

"You were not even told what a duel entails, were you? Is that why you deny?"

"I have no skills in fighting!" Diaval replied exasperatly, "A duel against a warrior would only result on my death!"

Then, Ini let out a light laugh that caught Diaval out of guard, "Willingness is seen through passion, which is not the same as brutality. The Phoenix herself fought for the heart of a human, and so we honour their love through duels. You must be willing to do the same, otherwise why stay by her side?"

"I am no Dark Fae," Diaval thought he had to say this since it seemed like it wasn’t clear enough, "How am I supposed to fight?"

Ini shook her head, "Murder is not allowed. Duels are no battles, but contests. Melee and without magic. Certainly not to the death. Any indication of it and interference is allowed," she touched her own chest with a fist, "I am the one to guard traditions so they are respected. You can trust me, raven man."

"What of mistress?" Diaval made sure to ask, "Hers should be one whose opinion you should consider on this. Does her will matters not?"

"It does, yes," Ini answered, "The Dark Phoenix is the one to decide whoever wins this duel."

Diaval's eyes widened, "You mean mistress is _expected_ to be here?"

"Duels can only go on with the female’s presence, yes. I shall send a messenger for her," Ini raised her hand and one of the spears by the weapon rack flew up to her in a wave of magic, so that she could hand the weapon over to Diaval. He held the weapon with difficulty, its excessive weight as the main problem, "Meanwhile, prepare yourself. When a bond is challenged, a contest is to progress as they do. The female makes the final choice."

Diaval paused, and his attention seemed to hover in the air. His face turned uncharacteristically serious.

Then, "And if I refuse?"

Ini turned serious, suddenly frustrated that a refusal was truly being considered, and so she warned, "Denial is equal to withdrawal, Diaval. And if _you_ do this, the Dark Fae see you with no honour. You’ll be seen as a traitor to our laws, as not worthy of her."

Diaval frowned, "I never did see myself as anything but unworthy of her."

"And yet you stayed by her side," Ini commented. 

Diaval's expression became sad, "There is no place I rather be."

Ini nodded, and adjusted the spear in Diaval's hands so that he could hold it more efficiently. More closely, she whispered to his ear, "Borra has the wings of a hawk, but he acts like a peacock. Watch for the moment he shows himself to the public, and attack. It will be enough to keep him busy and the audience amused."

Diaval blinked a couple of times before whispering back, "You can offer advice to a contestant?"

Ini smiled broadly and mischievously, "Why, it seems fair. And Borra needs to learn to think with his head."

_"And you must learn not to waste time on a coward, Ini."_

Borra was by the field, spear on hand, being played at impressive moves that seemed to cheer the younger audience. Diaval saw how Ini rolled her eyes at such display of arrogance, knowing too well Borra had somehow listened to their small banter.

"Is your eloquence so limited that you can only indulge on conversations if there are insults?" the raven man asked then, and that drew laughs from Ini, as well as the audience.

And of course it made Borra even more angry.

"I am no coward like yourself, crow," the Desert Fae continued on his accusations while offering Diaval a look of disgust bathed in a feeling of superiority.

The raven man sighed, already regretful of what he was about to do, "If you wish to conquer her heart by the remembrance of any of her nightmares," he paused to sigh, "this is not the way. Battle has brought mistress nothing but misery—"

"What a strange way to call her," Ini couldn't help but say. Her voice wasn't judgemental as Borra's has been, however.

"It is the title she feels most comfortable with," Diaval felt tired at explaining this more so many times, but he understood people's confusion. Maleficent and he had developed an intimacy of friends. It wasn't what he wanted, it was enough for him. He didn't need more. He was happy to be a servant.

At least, for the time left till his mistress came back and said what she thought of his feelings.

He shook his head.

He didn't want to think about it, because he was going to start crying again. His gaze fell to the weapon on his hands. He bit his own tongue and said no more. What was he to say anyway? That it would take one contest and then his bones and skin are broken, but no more than his heart?

For the Dark Phoenix wouldn't choose him. What the hell made them think she would? It would be for no reason at all, and would end up in a void deeper than the one he felt in his chest, or increase it in unmeasured proportions.

What outcome to expect if not defeat? And in defeat, another confirmation that his mistress would never love him. Diaval had no need for public humiliation. He was no lover of pain. And as much he earned to do anything to prove his love, a duel would not do. Those Dark Faes did not know his mistress. She may respect their laws yet she saw no use in most of them. For she was not raised amount them. She made use of violence only when necessary.

And a fray would not impress her at all.

"I refuse to be part of this."

Insults were shouted from the audience. Ini’s jaw dropped, so much was her surprise and Diaval paid her no mind. He looked around, realising that he would not find a way to the nest without his raven form. He could ask someone for help to return to his nest, but at the several insults from the young ones who were waiting for the duel, and while insults he could handle, the pride of a Dark Fae would be far worse than he could have imagined.

"Do you confess then, before the community," Ini gestured around her, to the many Dark Fae were there watching, "that the bond you share with the Dark Phoenix no longer exists? Do you, Diaval of the Moors, loves her no more?"

He loved her with everything in his life and it would be so simple to just say it.

He didn’t.

It was strange to think, and a contrast to see, as he spent so many years hiding his feelings, and could only demonstrate them in timid gestures. Now that everything was finally out of his chest, it was a relief to his heart, which had no fear of repeating what he felt. For he would never be ashamed of what he felt. He was ashamed of having dared to let himself hope for something that would never be his, for having been foolish enough to dream of having his mistress' love for himself.

And he would never forgive himself if she hated him for it.

"May I delight myself on eliminating this one or you will prevent me again, Ini?"

A pause.

Diaval blinked twice, then—"Excuse me?"

"You refused, crow" Borra spoke lowly, and savoured the words as one does when drinking, "You have no honour! And ultimately, you are no longer one of us! I shall be to her what a good mate is!" the warrior approached him, wings spread, teeth exposed, and the muscles in his arms were contracted, veins showing with his blood pulsing with hatred.

Diaval panicked, and pleaded Ini to help him, "What does that mean? What is he talking about?!"

But the Tundra Fae walked past him, straight to the audience, and spoke, authoritative yet saddened, "If you have no wish to follow our laws, they no longer apply to you. I never thought I would see a bond dissolve like this."

Borra snarled a brawl to later let out a wolf-like growl, "And now he pays."

And it was bloody.

Brutal.

For Diaval, naturally. Borra was an experienced warrior, it was very obvious that he would fight with extreme ease.

But win in fact he didn't, because he seemed to speak more than he wanted to act. He was too proud, and did not respect his opponent, and exalted himself to the public whenever he knocked his opponent to the hard ground, dust rising in the air. The public shouted celebrations and insults, divided between those who seemed to revel in the violence and those who realized from the beginning the tragedy that everything would end if someone did not interfere.

But Ini refused. She literally crossed her arms and watched what one might call _cowardice._

Yet law was clear. Denial equal dishonor. If you love someone, you fight for them, you fight to preserve what you have built together, you fight to defend the honor that was insulted by the duel. Without a duel, Diaval was no longer considered an equal as he had been before. And no one there owed him any respect or kindness. 

And Borra bragged at the opportunity to strike a final blow at his rival.

Diaval took advantage of his distraction to recover his spear from the ground, and wound Borra in the face. The cut was deep, the skin broke and Borra grunted in pain, almost falling to his side, his faced bathed blood.

The audience gasped, so surprised, and cheers and more insults filled the small arena. A duel to demonstrate the love made before the image of the Phoenix was one of the greatest honours to any Dark Fae, as they were born out of the love of the Phoenix, and so the fought for it—they survived through it.

Diaval was out of breathe, exhausted by the strength he had to use and the pain all over his body. His face was swollen from so many punches and kicks, and he could tell that he lost one or two of his teeth. Blood and sweat dripped from his scars, and his shirt was in rags, his coat having been removed brutally as the fight got heated.

To Borra, on the other hand, only a cut on his cheek was enough. His pride was more than wounded, in the face of the public's joy in his humiliation, and he rebelled with strength, his wings spreading. Diaval waited for an opportunity. He knew he would not win, it was foolish to think he would have any chance, but he would not allow himself to be overthrown so easily. If ravens fall, they fall with honour, resisting till the last moment.

And resist he did. For almost half an hour, which was much longer than duels usually lasted. That's because when they fought each other, the Dark Fae spared no effort and soon got tired. Or else, the female whose love was disputed would intervene. For the winner of the duel would not be the one who stood without a wound, but the one the female would choose, whatever choice factor she was to use. It could be the strongest, the fastest, or the most passionate or determined.

Diaval didn't know that. Borra knew, and since Maleficent has not yet appeared to protect her raven, he understood that she had no will in doing so.

That's why he fought with great pleasure. For the absence of the Dark Phoenix told him that she wished the crow to be eliminated by the one who proved to be the strongest.

Borra let out a battle cry, and those who hoped for his victory shouted his name. Diaval was throw against a wall, to fall on his left side, and the weight of his body fell over his arm, breaking it in half. The noise was so loud that the audience was suddenly silent. Diaval cried and clung his broken arm against his chest, and his head hurt, having hitting the ground when he fell and his vision was blurred. The world around him was spinning and his ears were deaf, the screams and insults of the public were no longer understandable. His left side hurt a lot, and he could barely breathe.

His spear snapped in half, and he knew it then that his undoing was near. His arm was broken, and his ribs were certain to be, his jaw was swollen, his clothes were torn and blood spilled from the deep cut on his forehead.

But his pride has never been better, as he had been seen as an opponent. _A rival._ He had been seen as worthy of fear..

He thought of Aurora for a moment and apologized for his lack of wisdom.

"You fought well," he looked up to a muscular figure with a spear in his hand, "For a raven."

Diaval said nothing. Could not. The pain he felt was too disorienting.

"Worry not. It shall be quick."

Borra rested the point of the spear against his chest, and pressed slowly.

Diaval screamed.

His right hand found the spear's hilt, trying to prevent the tip from sinking further into his chest. It had no effect, and the pain only multiplied infinitely. His heart was beating too fast, and it was almost poetic that the fight would end with a spear going through his chest.

He closed his eyes and hoped that everything would end peacefully.

The public's voices were cut by a curtain of wind hitting their faces. Then, restless murmurs. Borra turned and the tip of his wings hit Diaval's face. He could not see what or who had caused the interruption.

A hurricane instead of a wind, and the wall behind him prevented him from being carried away to the precipice. Suddenly the feathers on his face were gone, and only the spear on his chest remained. The audience around him was shouting, mostly celebrations, and just a name he had heard about for a long time, the name that would reign in his thoughts if they were your last moments.

_". . . mistress."_

He would recognize her magic anywhere. Sadly, he was too dizzy to be able to open his eyes and appreciate what was happening. It would be narrated to him much later, as the years passed as he aged, and such tale would be known to all Dark Fae, how the Dark Phoenix cut the sky in a blast of poisoned fire. How Borra screamed in terror and despair when arms made of weeds wrapped around his ankles and threw him to the dust. How the Dark Phoenix’s wings extended, flapping to reaffirm her dominance, so that no one there would dare challenge it. How her hatred was so eminent. And of course, how those in audience were absolutely paralysed in their places—how all bowed their heads in respect and fear.

Diaval too trembled with fear, not at his mistress, but there was nothing he could do but sense her anger, even when it was not directed at him. It was aimed at the people, who were quiet the instant Maleficent seemed to land in pure hatred before them. Her presence was warm to Diaval, though, and her wings covered around his body gently, a shelter against the world, and his head rested on her legs, and he sighed in relief, for he never had any desire to die so horribly, even if it seemed so.

"Mistress—" he tried to speak, but his pain was much greater and he could only grunt.

"Don't talk," he heard her whisper, voice trembling and too kind, and then he knew it was all a hallucination. He was already dead and his mind was playing tricks on him. Perhaps the other life would be your dream come true? And then the love of your life would appear and show their love and save you and everything would be fine?

"Be still."

He didn't even have time to answer. For the spear on his chest was removed, and he screamed very loudly, his back arched and then he fell back again. Only this time, a pair of hands held his face, and magic was already running through his veins and it was as if a welcoming fire soothed him. The pain suddenly didn't even seem to matter as a forehead touched his.

Only when he opened his eyes and literally felt the sentiment behind those golden eyes, and then he realized what had happened—his wounds had disappeared, and he didn't even notice, yet he never felt so tired in his life. He fell on his back, heard voices of fear, grunts of protest and more war cries rebuked by waves of cursed and poisonous fire.

Then there was silence, and the dust raised by the turmoil subsided, and magic coursed through his body to reduce him to what he once was, when they first met, a raven about to die, an analogy of fate to what happened on that autumn afternoon, when a raven was saved by a phoenix who had not been reborn yet.

And the Dark Phoenix secured a small bird against her chest before flying away from everything that had happened.

The raven remembered nothing.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm considering drawing a few scenes.


	3. when you rise with the day, I might not have too much to say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not an ending, but it is a start. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fucking finally, I guess? I literally dreamed with the first words of this chapter.

* * *

This may not be the last thing I tell you about the Dark Fae, but I promise it as significant as everything has been till now.

You see, one of their oldest beliefs, besides the power of love and the passion of their wrath, it that _rain is the way the heavens found to marry the earth_. Rain gives birth to life in a cycle that has no end, it could not find an end. It brings hope, nourishment and a bow of colours painting the skies that some may link to pots of gold.

Gold itself has no value to the Dark Fae. Rain is rejoiced. Much more value was found on rain, because unlike other species that gather in their nests, the Dark Fae celebrated. Children play while their parents collect water. Others are to watch as plantations are fed. Desert Faes have a peculiar relationship with rain, they do not know much about it, being so rare where they came from, and for that reason they stay vigilant for the promise of lightning and waves coming from the sea, agitated by strong winds.

And a raining day being the same as the one the Dance? What a blessing! The heavens themselves are blessing the unions! Such day would not go to waste. Young faes did not stray away from their duty: to find a partner, to present them a nest, and then, to mate and produce an offspring. So they danced in the air, their wings so wet they were too heavy to fly. Weary and stubborn, these faes ended up exhausted, and those who did not end up in their partner's nest, withdrew to their own to rest for the next day. The Dance would last another six days, and the week was just in its beginning.

Families gathered in their homes and much was discussed and done. Advice from elders: how to fly and impress a potential mate, how to show strength and wit, how to groom your nest, how to act when your bond is challenged. The latter reminded the children and young ones of the Dark Phoenix, and they asked their elders: was there any wisdom on her choice?

Maleficent, despise unconventional at most, would never have nothing but praise said about her choice. Duelling was so rare, events dedicated to exceptions, and what an impossible sight to witness: the Dark Phoenix defending the longest lasting soul bond seen in centuries. Another new tale to tell for sure, and children were certainly eager to listen. The magnitude of the power emitted when dealing with threats is a factor that attracts Dark Faes like pollen does to bees. But the nuances of this tale, and the things that didn't make much sense, made it all the more interesting. Why the raven didn't accept the duel? Why the Dark Phoenix defended him when he refused to defend their bond? Did she love him more he knew? Did the raven had no grasp of what a duel means?

Only the Dark Phoenix and her raven could give answers to those questions, and no one would be foolish to disturb them after such a display of loyalty. The Dark Phoenix had been clear in her message—fury and passion heated by poisonous and destructive fire, the weapons to wield against anyone who was willing to defy her choice.

And her choice was the raven. That absolutely no one would dare discussing ever again.

On the exception of little ones, of course, the ever so curious without filter to their questions, but that's a tale for later.

The first day was of battle, fire and then rain. It all went eventually away and conscience returned to a raven by the start of the night, the sun barely set in the horizon, clouds dissolving as the wind hit them, and light started to bounce through the windows.

Then, the smell of food.

Finally, the touch of feathers.

_So many feathers._

It was overwhelmingly warm and comfy and of no end. Peace and safety surrounded the nest and for brief moments any whys and hows were forgotten.

Then, the raven remembered—a duel of all possible consequences, good or bad depending on the victims. His mind was back to what he went through that day, thinking of it as a nightmare—except for the bad luck, which later came to redeem itself with his salvation. He found himself alive and well, saved as once a long time ago.

His eyes opened in a snap, but his vision was blurred, so he had to rely on his senses. It was later of the same day, an afternoon of rain. Curtains were hit by the kind wind, and he felt very exposed when a cold breeze hit his body as found himself rested in a nest of furs, the softest nest he had ever laid on. His once torn robes were replaced by a loose dark shirt and braies that reached his knees, and a fine linen blanket covered him from the waist down. Sounds of wood crackling were not far away, the bubbling of liquid on a small cauldron, and the smell of vegetables, and he felt the hunger growl in his stomach because he hadn't eaten for several hours.

Over him, a blanket of feathers covering his arms and legs, an embrace of protection.

Beside him, the figure of a woman.

He didn't need to see her to know who it was. He would recognize her presence anywhere.

"Mistress."

The soreness all over his throat from screaming and the taste in his mouth being of dry blood was proof enough of what had been real. A nightmare of violence and laws far away from his capacity of understanding. And even if fair in righteousness, it didn't stop the dread he felt upon facing such challenge.

"Hush now," her voice was comforting, a shush soft like the feathers covering his body, yet her touch was unexpected, and the raven almost jumped to feel fingers combing the strands of hair over his brow.

" . . . am I dead?" he wondered to himself. He felt he couldn't possibly be alive. How was any of this real? For all he knew, he could be dead now and this was but a glimpse of afterlife.

"No," was the answer, and it sounded amused by the absurdity of his question, and he wanted to smile, ironic to what felt like a seconds ago to him, "You are safe," and that voice, soft and kind seemed now hoarse, as if charged with emotion, "This, I promise you."

The promise was so true to him that he believed it.

But he couldn't help feeling guilty.

"I'm sorry—" he tried to say, and again was interrupted.

"None of this is your fault."

He blinked a few times, surprised as well trying to readjust his vision.

He failed.

"I think I hit my head," he murmured, pressing his palms against his eyes, and it was not his intention to joke, nor to recall the time when he did it in the face of the uncharacteristic way his mistress admitted that she had missed him.

"A little," Maleficent jested either way, and she was kind, "Are you in pain?"

Diaval shook his head, "I can't see anything yet."

"Oh," hands removed his own from his eyes and a trace of golden magic sneaked into them, making them burn a little, "What of now?"

His sight found focus on feathers—his feathers, tied to braids made by little ones who so willingly wanted to welcome the Dark Phoenix to their people. Those feathers were an unusual contrast to dark oak hair, their sheen almost bluish.

Then, green garments dark as before, yet much more modest, summed up in a graceful nightgown that flowed like a water veil, of silky fabric and a round neckline that exposed collarbone and shoulders, arms yet covered to wrists. A skirt fell directly until it covered her feet completely, almost crawling across the floor just as giant wings did. Worth noting that it was a garment of rest, and the light tone of expression also told him so—his mistress was tired and needed the familiarity of home, not the pressure of snakeskin and bear armour.

Diaval felt like his heart barely fit in his chest, and he again wondered to himself if perhaps he had died. The vision of his mistress was like watching the night sky where nothing but the brightness of the moon seemed to matter. She was so beautiful and Diaval didn’t fell worth of her.

"Diaval?"

He swallowed, and wouldn't blink once, "Yes, mistress?"

Maleficent offered a side smile, like no other Diaval had even been graced with, kind and almost shy, yet filled with secrets.

"I asked about your arm."

That made him blink and the trance he was one was over. He frowned, "My arm?" which from totally unrecognisable had returned to normal, and he dared to say, stronger than ever. Diaval flexed his arm twice, opened and closed his hand, his fingers tingling. The pain he felt at having his bones broken was still in his mind, it was recent, familiar, and very disturbing, but there was great relief in not being able to feel it anymore, and it made him feel like nothing more than a horrible nightmare.

He sighed in relief, "Feels much better now, mistress. Thank you."

She hummed, and was about to say something else when a crack of the fire in the bonfire caught her attention. She pursed her lips instead, seemingly reconsidering, and left her place to walk to the bonfire. To Diaval, her silent felt like the times in which she was just his mistress ignoring her servant while he tried at all costs to talk to her.

Diaval didn't miss those times, yet he recalled them to be simpler than the times he lived now. He cleaned his throat, suddenly uncomfortable, and managed to sat up by himself with no struggle, his feet touching the floor and as soon he tried to stand, his own body seemed to rebel. A very strong nausea hit his stomach, and a bitter taste rose in his throat, and he wanted to throw up right there. He shivered, rested his elbows on his tights, his palms to hos eyes, to convey the feeling that the world around him was spinning.

It did not help him.

"Diaval?"

"Oh, goodness—" he stopped when he felt another wave of nausea hit his stomach, "—my stomach is eating itself!" then he chuckled to himself, self-deprecating, weak and almost pathetic, but nonetheless grateful to be alive, even if he still had doubts on it.

"It's empty," his mistress scolded him. The sound of clay pots clacking against each other reached his ears, someone looking for something. Diaval, despise the state of helplessness, was confused.

"Mistress?"

A presence was by his side in the matter of a minute, and he felt a shiver when a hand stroked his skull, nails running through his hair, soothing any headaches, although some butterflies were left on his stomach. Again, he understood nothing, and took deep breaths so he could open his eyes and guess what was going on.

"Mistress?"

But she wasn't about to explain, saying instead, "Breathe slowly."

He obeyed, and it helped, though he had to ignore the pain that hit the back of his head. Then, his nose wrinkled, and he was curious when a bowl of clay was neatly placed on his hands, "What's this?"

"Poison," obvious amusement touched her voice, and her servant stared at her in horror. The fae sighed, "Food, Diaval. Unless you wish your stomach to keep complaining," as if in response, his stomach growled, hunger making itself known, and Diaval felt his cheeks burn, "There were vegetables left by the Jungle Faes, nuts and bread. I—" she stopped talking to notice her servant watching at her with wide eyes, and his aura felt suspicious, doubtful even, the soul bond making the beat of his heart louder to her ears, and faster and stronger by every second of silence. She frowned, "What?"

The raven man said nothing, and his gaze fell down to the bowl on his hands. Chains pulled on his heart, longing making him sigh.

As Guardian of the Moors, Maleficent had so little time to rest and care for small needs. The extension of magic was in the freedom of power she had on using it. Her imagination would more than often allow herself to indulge on making her life rather easier—a little help wouldn't hurt, as it only required a thought of her will, an idea or perspective, and magic would to the rest (it wasn't for nothing Aurora's seventeen birthday was preserved from a falling tower covered in blue and pink frosting being sustained by a broom handle).

So whenever there was the need, a tree would sprout from the earth in a touch of magic, and Maleficent would feast on as many berries she could, as Dark Faes wouldn't require as much sustenance as humans or other magical creatures—two meals were sufficient for a healthy life. Still, Diaval would question her about it all the time, because “two meals are not enough, mistress, and an apple doesn't count for a meal!”. The bird was right on the nature of her small portioned meals, and would often hunt small animals unlucky to cross his path when he was on this mission. He would proudly bring a prey home, and his mistress would have vegetables and nuts already in a small pot cooking by a fire in the ground, and a meal would be shared.

And so mistress and servant would share meals. Stews, soups and broths accompanied by bread was a common combination to the Moorfolk and humans alike, so simple to prepare—usually reserved to colder nights for being quite filling and sustainable and tasty, giving vigour to any weaker body in a matter of minutes. It was a cold end of afternoon, and a stew would perfectly do. The so many ingredients were found in the nest, and it was good for that, as they were a gift from the Jungle Faes, and it would be unwise to let them go to waste, an offense to the kindness of having them offered in hospitality.

To be offered this hospitality, however, to have his mistress cook and share a meal with him made Diaval miss those older times. When he wouldn't have dared to speak too much. When he wouldn't have dared to ruin everything.

"Mistress," the raven used her title in an insistently controlled tone, having no wish to sound nervous, but he couldn't help feeling foolish considering how hungry he was, "You shouldn't have."

Maleficent was not bothered by it, and merely rolled her eyes, disinterested, and gave way to another order, "Eat."

She had no wish to bicker, not yet anyway, and Diaval had no wish to sound ungrateful. Which would be easy, if complaining about kindness after being saved from the arms of death. But laying in a nest that wasn't his, being offered food by no one less than his mistress, so distinguished close he was able to smell the perfume of flowers in her skin?

He felt helpless.

So he gave in, and his frown dissolved little, remaining as his curiosity as he gazed down at the bowl on his hands. It felt warm against his fingers, and the clay was painted in red and blue paintings resembling ancient texts, steam hitting his nose in waves, and Diaval was so tempted by the smell that he could not help but give in, expressing a sigh.

"Thank you," he whispered and then blew on the stew to help it cool down before taking the first sip. The taste was strong against his tongue, composed of carrots and potatoes, mostly, then ground almonds, slices of bread bathed in a touch of honey.

It shouldn't be so surprisingly delicious, magic could do wonders on its own, but still, it was a meal made from care and that made him a little nervous and unsure. But hunger was so strong that doubts remained sidelined as he ate. Diaval wasn't very used to eat in his human form—it just wasn't worth the effort—yet he was so hungry and served himself of two bowls in order to feel satisfied. His cheeks were very red once he was finished, all due to the warmth around him, and his mistress sitting by his side serving herself of a much modest portion of the stew, wings lazily stretched and feathers touching the back of his neck, also didn't help on the blush.

But he was grateful, and his stomach was full, and despise the dizziness had diffed off, the need to voice his thoughts again made itself known.

"Why am I here?" he asked.

Maleficent was by the fire when she heard the question, "You fainted," she said, and what seemed to be a tale in the background flashed before her eyes before she added, "I turned you into a raven and brought you here."

"That's not what I—" Diaval hesitated and felt there was no use to argue, not if he was to sound ungrateful to the kindness his mistress had showed him, "Thank you," he said again, and grasped the linen cloth once covering him, hands clutching, shyness against his usual brashness, and tried to come up with a better argument, "What I meant is that I don't understand why I'm here, mistress. This is your nest. I shouldn't be here."

"You are where I want you to be," Maleficent told him, "Stop complaining."

He frowned, "I'm not complaining—"

"You are complaining," she insisted, and sat by his side in the nest. That was when Diaval noticed that she was without her staff. It rested by the nest, so far away from her reach that it seemed forgotten. Despise her magic not requiring any artefact to bring or destroy life, the staff served as the physical support she had when walking for the first time without her wings, an illustration of her need to feel safe even if she was stuck to the ground. Not having a staff at hands showed a total lack of concern, an absolute state of enough safety one would let themselves to be free.

Which seemed totally illogical considering how she left the nest the night before. Now she saved his life, healed his wounds, laid him in her nest, and all the fear he saw in her eyes the night before seemed to disappear.

What the hell had happened that he didn't know about?

"Mistress—"

"Diaval," his name came in the form of a warning, his mistress thinking he was going to insist on complaining—or at least, what she considered a complaint.

"I'm not complaining," he clarified again, and his gaze dropped to his hands as his voice dropped in volume, "I simply have no wish to bother you."

The sigh that came in response sounded extremely annoyed.

"The times in which you bothered me involved you pestering me with gifts whenever I wouldn't talk," her voice returned to the kindness of before, overcome by a little weariness—the day had been fateful for both of them, "Those moments never involved fear."

Diaval frowned, lips parted, hesitation pausing him before he whispered, " . . . fear?"

Warmth, not fear, what he felt when his mistress confessed so softly, "You frightened me."

Diaval did not understand the real meaning of her words, "I did?" he asked and when his mistress didn't respond right away, he tried to apologise, "It was never my intention—"

"Stop talking," and that he did, not because of her order, but because a hand did not hesitate to slid down across the marks on his neck, down to the large one on his chest, a fruit of his transformations through magic, to rest over a barely healed scar, right over his beating heart.

She watched how his Adam's apple rose and fall, denoting nervousness at her words and touch, and his hands would clutch to the linen cloth on the best, an attempt to hold on any impulses. But there was no disgust, no rejection, no fear in his eyes, but uncertainty on why she was doing any of this. Maleficent couldn't blame him. She hadn't expressed her thoughts, for she could read what he felt, and so she knew that her touch was not only welcome—it was wanted.

Despise it all, the ease in which she found herself touching him, it was yes very strange, as much it was to be wanted so strongly. For so long she feared being rejected as she had once been rejected in the face of betrayal, and here she was knowing exactly what would happen if she indulged on the readings of a soul bond she had been unaware for over two decades. It was liberating and ultimately terrifying. Amusing too, in understanding the power she had over her raven—a power that did not come from a sense of obedience or duty or guilt, for Diaval did not allow her to touch him out of fear—he did it because he simply could not deny her anything.

Again, a fruit of his love for her.

A love that awakened the greatest sense of brutality ever felt when in face of a threat.

"You fought him," she gazed into his eyes, no longer able to look at the scar over his heart without flames of vengeance forming in her own, "which is one more reason to—" a glow of green flashed over her eyes, but it was only for a moment, "—end him."

The memory of Borra's crimes was vivid, so recent and burning, that Maleficent had to force herself not to return to the arena, to that bloody Desert Fae, and do to him exactly what her impulses told her to.

Instead, she continued with her monologue, "I cannot comprehend why would you go through battle with no fear of embracing death as one does to an old friend."

She knew there was not much her raven could have done against the traditions of the Dark Fae, and it was certainly unfair on her part to demand that he had done nothing. What irritated her was that she was not there. And hadn't she been warned by fate, she would have lost the one she didn't even have time to love as he loved her.

And that is why the fury of her blood was like poison.

For _death_ would be the fate of those who tried to take from her the one whom her heart belonged to.

"You know me, mistress," Diaval tried for a smile, "Always trying to mingle and make new friends."

The naive attempt at humour did not work, and Maleficent glared at him, dark demeanour falling over her eyes.

"My patience is at limit, Diaval," a warning this time, and the hand over his heart remained, "Do not test it. Do not wish for me to avenge your death, for not even the more foolish of creatures would desire death by my hands."

And the size of her promise became more impactful, in a way that Diaval did not expect to come from her.

And he might have even agreed with such logic, had he not quickly picked what his mistress had revealed to him.

"Did you kill him?"

There was no criticism—nothing could be done if Maleficent had actually killed Borra, but it would be a surprise if she had actually done it. She was not violent by nature, despite the insistence on making others believe so. She was easily bored and preferred to be alone, she did not like to waste time on small talk, she was mostly grumpy when challenged, stubborn when facing new ideals, and that was due an absurd pride, which was natural to Dark Fae such as herself, but everything ended when it came to Aurora, because Maleficent loved her child and was willing to do anything to protect her.

And yet, she didn't kill Ingrith, who had offended her so much, who had almost killed her Aurora, instead bestowing upon her a curse worse than death itself.

Had she killed Borra, though, the anger that had overtaken her was certainly far greater than any she had ever felt in her life, capable of stopping any reasoning.

"No."

The fae didn't seem the least bit bothered by the possibility, however.

_Killing_ is not how I describe what she did to Borra, but it was not for lack of want. Maleficent simply had more pressing matters at the time to bother pausing her time (i.e., saving her raven) to torture and then later end the life of that bloody fiend.

But oh, yes, she would've him tortured and killed if she could. The rage that filled her at the time, and perhaps at the present moment by the mere memory of it, would have her do that.

"Mistress," Diaval himself was in disbelief, as Maleficent's silence and indifference often were pretty telling to those who knew how to read it, "What did you do to him?"

The answer was right to the point:

"What you would have me do to anyone who dares harming what is mine."

That made Diaval frown at her.

_Hers?_

He understood very early on his interactions with them that the Dark Fae were possessive, whether out of love or pure selfishness. His mistress therefore would be protective of him, she had him claimed as one of hers the night before, but this felt different. It brought him a strange and funny feeling, to know that he belonged with her, even if it wasn't the way he wanted, but he was happy to know that she was willing to protect him no matter what happened.

What he didn't know is that she took it as a personal offense on what happened to him. It made her blood boil in anger. She was possessive and quite practical, yes, without a doubt, a warning as to how she would react if anything similar was to occur again: an immediate and violent response, of fire that was so green it reminded the venom of serpents that would burn the skin of her enemies in the powers of hell.

_Had she not arrived in time . . ._

. . . the hand on his chest started a light caress, so soothing it barely felt there, a reaction to the tumult of emotions at the possibility of having lost her raven. She needed to feel his heartbeat, needed the assurance that he was alive and safe and well and with her, for there was nothing to fear as long he was with her. She was determined to dissolve all the sharp nervousness and anxiety her raven had over his shoulders, as well her own.

It had the opposite effect, as one would expect of a raven who had no idea of what was going on, and so his heart pounded like a drum. His mistress was sitting so close, hands so tactile and that wasn't her nature. That had him worried. Diaval did not understand, he could not. What he knew of his mistress was that she spoke through actions, almost never through words even if she had no shame on saying what she thought. Touching was so rare however, a gift for much time not even allowed to Aurora. As the young queen grew in grace and beauty, Maleficent couldn't find in herself to deny her little beastie the warmth of an embrace.

Diaval was always allowed proximity if in raven form. He would land on her shoulder and fondly peck her cheek or nuzzle her hair. She would caress his feathers and he would purr, causing her to laugh. When he wanted to be a man, he would land on her staff and peck her fingers.

After the battle at Peaceforest's castle, he was tasked in preening her wings, and he seemed to get lost whenever he did it, taking all the time necessary to keep them clean and shiny. Sometimes, preening was followed by soft conversation, then a touch on her arm when assisting her to dress, perhaps a whisper in her ear when he wanted to share secrets and precious information he had gathered while flying around under her orders.

He fondly remembered of an autumn afternoon when the three of them were sitting on a hill watching the sunset. Aurora was talking cheerfully about her day when a cold wind hit on them and she suddenly stopped and shivered, rubbing her hands on her arms, her coat not being enough to keep her warm. Diaval, on the other side, rubbed his hands together. Maleficent took it upon herself to wrap her wings around them both—it was purely instinctive, and neither seemed to care. Aurora laughed, then snuggled closer to her mother, basking in the warmth of her wings. Diaval seemed to freeze at first, and then he smiled, open and happy in face of such honour.

But the subtle, casual touch of her wings was nothing compared to having her caress his bare skin, sitting so close to him that he could listen to the sound of her breathing.

_What was going on?_

"Mistress . . ." but then again, how was he supposed to ask her?

Unknown to him was that none of this was an act of obligation, as the soul bond did not force her to do anything, but it rather made her see feelings much more clearly, and she no longer had the strength to fight them. She had wasted too much time denying herself so much. Aurora's love had been denied for so long, and she always regretted. She would not repeat the same mistake when she felt the love of a raven that had in her presence the greatest happiness he could have. His devotion pleased her and she felt the urge to return it.

Even if it left her raven without understanding a single damn thing regarding his mistress' will.

"Tell me what happened."

You may think Maleficent knew enough of the duel to conclude on what had happened. However, nothing seemed to make sense to her. She could respect Diaval would accept the duel on principle, he had a brave heart. But he was never an intrepid fool willing to face danger for his own pride. Had the chance to achieve glory, even in a contradictory way, seduced him? Ravens were so careful. They placed great value on life. For Diaval to foolishly take the chance to proof himself through an act of violence? No logic. Surely he knew there was no need for it? He had proven himself over the years, and she knew he did love her, that he wanted her desperately, with the soul bond telling her of his love in waves of warmth everytime their gazes crossed paths, so why leap into the chance of death so certain? Lack of conformity painted her eyes green, something the usual coldness of her voice perfectly hid.

"That was no wish of death, mistress. Neither an attempt," Diaval held her hand to his chest, gently, to stop the caress that was causing him to lose focus, in a way of trying to keep himself calm, "Borra wanted to talk to you. I told him you've left. He challenged me for a duel. I refused. He dragged me to the arena. Ini tried to convince me to duel him, found me a spear to fight. I refused again and Borra attacked. I tried to defend myself and failed."

"Were you not told of the consequences?" Maleficent asked then, the poisonous green of her eyes still shining, and anger seemed to consume her insides. She could feel that what happened had her raven physically and mentally drained and the soul bond would tell her _why_ if she was willing to read more into it, but on this matter, the explanation was something she wanted to hear from his lips.

"I was. Later, by Ini. Borra was shouting at me," Diaval made a face, mockingly imitating a rather exaggerated low voice that sounded more like the grunts of a bear, " _Our rules no longer apply to you! You are a disgrace! You have no honour! I will make you pay!_ I couldn't understand most of his words, mistress. He growled all the time! And he kept calling me _crow._ Crow! What makes him think I'm a _crow?_ The difference is _shattering!"_

To this annoyed rant, Maleficent commented nothing, a smirk as her only response. Her raven sounded more offended about having his species mislead on purpose than on the actual attack against his life. It wasn't surprised Borra would act like this. He never hid his disapproval, if not distaste, for Diaval's mere presence. It was to be expected that he would try anything against her raven, but men, Moorfolk or human, are too stupid creatures to make sense of any logic. If anyone told him not to do something, Borra would do it out of sheer stubbornness, for despise his excellency on war and devotion to his people, the Desert Fae didn't seem to know none than being a dedicated, yet rude warrior with a pride bigger than his wings.

And the thought of him made Maleficent want to snap his spine in half. Instinct said she should've killed him on the spot, but that would be the anger still talking against her senses and the least she needed now was to set a war against her own people.

Although, considering the circumstances, she doubt anyone there would go against her choice to kill Borra.

He dared to _defy her._

He deserved _to pay._

"What did Ini tell you?"

That Tundra Fae too. Thought as a friend, or at least an ally, and in the end she tries to have her raven killed.

Such offense couldn't go unanswered.

"Ini said—" Diaval showed some hesitation, torn between the wish to tell the truth and the will to make peace and prevent his mistress from doing something she would later regret. He opted for the truth because it would be of no use to lie. Maleficent knew when he was lying. He was terrible at it anyway, "—Ini said that by refusing to duel, Dark Fae laws no longer apply to me and so Borra could do to me as he saw fit. I was seen as an intruder. A trespasser. Borra attacked me. Some others wanted to . . . help me, kept shouting at me to use the spear and defend myself. I tried and well, didn't work much on my favour, you see. I just delayed the inevitable. It doesn't matter now."

"It does," the Dark Phoenix glared at her servant, and he winced at the sharpness of her voice, and green fire coloured her usual honey eyes, "You almost died."

Diaval offered a small smile, his voice to casual when speaking of nearly death situations, "There is no need to overreact, mistress. Thanks to you, I'm well alive. Besides . . . " he sighed, sensing that he was unable to feel angry, " . . . the Dark Fae followed traditions sacred to them. I cannot fault them for reacting at an insult to their culture . . . as odd it may be to me."

"I will."

But Diaval should have known that when his mistress put something on her head, nothing could change that.

"Whoever disagrees is free, though not welcome, to argue with me."

Which means this matter was settled and finished, and there was nothing Diaval could do.

"Although, if I ever sense those idiotic ideas are being considered among the people again, I will not hesitate to eliminate the thought."

Diaval couldn't help but try though. If he was to be paid a coin of gold for every moment he acted like a voice of reason, which stopped his mistress from doing something she would later regret, he would be a nobleman by now.

"Wouldn't that jeopardize your alliance with them?"

Also, anything to distract him from the hand on his bare skin—that would be quite nice.

"Would you rather I let them beat you to death?"

This made any argument against her to dissolve immediately. Diaval obviously wanted to be indulge on a fight of words, as it came naturally to him whenever his mistress disagreed with him about literally anything, he loved bickering with her, it was exciting, but his mistress had him on spot, a raised eyebrow in a challenge.

"No," the raven man sighed again, frowning, and spoke sorely, a noble shadow, "Forgive me. I didn't mean to sound ungrateful, I . . . mistress, I initiated this. My refusal caused this. I offended them and they reacted. I might as well admit it and try to amend my mistakes, no?"

"No."

It was an order now, not a suggestion, one that Diaval didn't want to take, "My actions may have caused a rift between you and your people and you don't want me to do anything?" 

"I don't require you to," Maleficent said, "Whatever is to happen between me and the Dark Fae, you are _not_ to be involved."

Diaval insisted, "But I cause this!"

"You didn't know," came the clarification that sounded more like a lament in Maleficent's voice, and the fae ended up sighing the last words softly, "You couldn't have know."

That was new information and it made Diaval curious, "Is there more about those duels I wasn't told?"

A lot more.

"They expected you to duel," Maleficent revealed.

"That I know," Diaval said, "They screamed that part at me after I refused."

Maleficent didn't wait for better thinking, she refused to walk in circles, and her eyes watched his expression at every moment, "And why did you refuse it knowing what it entailed?"

Diaval was taken by great surprise. He didn't expect his mistress to ask him something that at least would have no meaning or importance to her.

"Mistress—"

She ignored the pain his eyes, and the soul bond told her to offer comfort. Instead, she salted the wound by asking in an almost cruel suggestion, "Wouldn't it be an opportunity to have what you wanted?"

Her raven turned shy to her words, almost embarrassed, and his gaze fell, no wanting to meet hers as he allowed himself to sigh a final time, so tired and regretful already of not having finished this conversation before. His hand still hand hers against his chest and he didn't seem to know what to do. Maleficent didn't pull away, and waited.

The events of the night before needed to be talked about, sooner or later. Yet to Diaval, what there was to say anyway? _Refusing_ was the only option left to him. Maleficent was not his. She would never be _his._ Love is a choice and if his mistress would never make such a choice, be it for him, her servant, or for anyone else, a duel would do no good if it would only bring her irritation and memories of what she struggled to forget. It would be not only stubborn, but arrogant, bordering insulting, to the answer she had given him the night before. For a duel, which Diaval could understand, is a question: which of the contestants is worthy of love.

And Diaval had his answer. It was _no._ By saving his life, the Dark Fae would see it as if his mistress had chosen her servant over them, and Diaval couldn't let that happen.

He refused.

So he said, "I have no right to fight for what is not rightly mine to claim."

And just like that, any further doubt was banished, by the sight of his eyes, and without trying the soul bond expressed the feel of rejection he felt at her leaving him behind as a response to his unspoken proposal over the embarrassment of being publicly humiliated. Diaval had walked in circles, and there was great fear in actually saying what he felt, contrasting with the strange certainty that he seemed to have that she did not to feel the same as he did. When he saw that she showed no interest, he found himself giving up on his own will, but he wanted her to know, and even tried to convince her that maybe one day she might be able to find someone else to love.

His heart broke at the alternative, but he held on, because he loved her.

"It would be foolish of me to accepted that duel, anyway," he went on his explanations, and let out a dry and embarrassed laugh, the comedy of himself, and he glanced at their joined hands, whispering, "It is ridiculous enough that someone would find a rival in me. I am not—" and he was unable to say the words, to admit aloud what his mind had always understood, what his heart insisted on denying until he could no longer breathe, "—you deserve better than have others believe you would have a servant as—"

_"Mine?"_

A beat of silence was shared.

Diaval looked up at her, startled at the possessiveness of her expression and the depth and extent of her words.

To Maleficent, the naturalness in which she said this word surprised her more than him, precisely because she knew she spoke without thinking. It was a reflex. Of course he was hers. It was clearer in her mind to say that than to admit that the rain was wet, that iron burned her skin, that the sea smelled of salt, and she found it rather amusing that of the many battles she had fought in her life against thoughts and feelings that she denied for decades, the fact that Diaval belonged to her was not one of them.

Diaval _loved her_ and he was _hers._

_The End._

"No duty nor debt would have save you, Diaval," she told him, in a strong and deeper voice, a promise of destruction if someone stopped her, and looked him in the eye the whole time while adding, "No tradition, people or army would prevent me from doing so. I saved you because I wanted to. Not because it was expected of me."

"And for that, I'm grateful, mistress, I truly am," Diaval said, and his eyes, though dark as night, held the blue of sadness as the sky of no starts, "But the least I can do is to take this burden from your shoulders in any ways I can. There is nothing I wouldn't do. And if you asked of me to stay one hundred years away, I would."

There was determination in his voice, spoken in a sense of duty greater than the pain in his chest. Maleficent did not understand what he was talking about, and her first impulse was to put an end to his plans. For they were poetic and extreme, and she knew he was true to his word, no soul bond needed to tell her that—Diaval didn't lie, and he certainly never lied to her, he was a creature of honour. And before the truth and the promise of his words, before the possibility of being away from him for another night, let alone one hundred years, her heart stopped in time, and in an uncontrolled response, she broke the link of their joined hands, and tightened a fist on the collar of his shirt harder than it should, claws clinging to the fabric.

Her face didn't show the sudden panic she felt, but her jaw tightened, and her eyes moved quickly searching on his face for a sign she could understand. She saw no reason in his words. She saw no reason for such an absurd suggestion.

"I would never ask you a hundred years."

Diaval covered her fist on his chest with both hands now, and the strength was gone, slowly, and she seemed to relax, now calmer, and her eyes followed him as he brought her hand to his lips, in a warm, gentle gesture.

"It is an offer," he said, voice raspy decorated by a kind smile, "Freely given."

She instantly refused, "I do not wish for you to leave, Diaval. Would have I not told you if so?"

Something changed in his eyes, suddenly they widened, and his lips parted, and gone was the defeat, gone was the sense of dread, and he tried to remain serious, but she could see that the beginning of a grin was forming on his lips. The soul bond told her that great hope had awakened in his chest.

"I can stay?"

"I want you to stay."

A smile was opened as though it would split her raven's face in two of so wide. Diaval tried to say something, but his excitement was so great that it made him feel magnificent, and he lacked appropriate words. His breathing became more apparent, stronger, and he could only chuckle at himself and his own stupidity.

"I—I thought you wouldn't—"

"You were mistaken," she said and the her voice turned fond, "A common occurrence."

Diaval grinned at her. He felt like dancing. For his mistress wanted him close. She was not angry at him.

And to think that he made himself believe he would be abandoned because of his feelings . . . feelings whose memory made his smile vanish, and the other one that followed was not so wide, for it was forced, and the soul bond told her that a great pain returned to his chest.

"Never again I shall speak of . . . of what was spoken," then he promised with his heart, the sincerity in his eyes would make anyone believe that he spoke the truth, that he would forever ignore his own heart as long as he could be by her side, "This I vow to you, I swear—"

"I cannot nor will I ignore what was said," but Maleficent could never allow it to continue, not with her own heart begging him to repeat what was said the night before, "It cannot remain the same as before."

The smile on Diaval's face, once genuine and then forced, completely disappeared, and a sense of terror corrupted his gaze, and he swallowed, feeling very afraid.

The fist on his shit relaxed, a hand raising to cup his cheek, caressing the scars on his temples for a few long seconds before looking into his eyes and saying, "I apologize," and Diaval became even more quiet, eyes wide. He could not believe his mistress was apologizing to him, "It was wrong of me to have left you by yourself. Had I not, Borra wouldn't have dared to force you into such nonsense of a duel."

Diaval said nothing in return, he couldn't. Maleficent had slid her hand to hold the back of his neck and leaned into him, pressing her forehead against his, closing her eyes. She heard his breathing falter, but no complain, either for now knowing how or for not wanting to, though she suspected on the latter when he held her wrist, cold fingers spread through her skin, and breathed warmly against her face, "Mistress?" and he sounded a little worried, as breathless as her, and so confused. He did not mind the sudden approach, even if he did not understand why.

But she could no longer contain herself. Adrenaline ran through her veins for different reasons than the ones hours before in the arena, but the burning on her flesh felt like the fire she used to destroy her enemies, at the very thought of what might have happened, and passion consumed her. It had been so, this consuming anger, from the moment she realized her raven was in danger, and she flew high and fast, her wings carrying her through the wind and clouds, falling like a lightning in the arena, and her fury was greater than the world, and it was in the midst of the ire of fire and the strength of her passion that she finally surrendered to what the soul bond showed her.

And what she _saw_ when she landed in the arena was her raven.

And what she _felt_ was anger at those who hurt him, for how could they defy their soul soul bond?

And what she _wanted_ to do was to kill all of them regardless of guilt.

And what _stopped_ her and made her reason was the soul bond telling her that her raven did not need her wrath, but her care.

For he was _hers._

And it was there, in the middle of the arena, when _she surrendered her heart to him._

"Do you know of soul bonds, Diaval?"

His breathing continued to wheeze, but he responded the best he could, "A force that unites people build on shared emotions and interests."

The answer was too perfect for someone she assumed didn't know what the matter was about, and she pulled away, but not too much, enough to raise an eyebrow at him, the question hanging in the air.

"Aurora mentioned it once," Diaval explained, rather clever to read her expression, "Philip too, and so did the Three Pixies. Knotgrass seemed rather fond of the concept."

And it is interesting to note how he needed no soul soul bond to read whatever she meant even by no talking. He became familiar with her mannerisms, memorizing each trait, each sign, each feeling, each gesture.

"Why?"

Diaval was naturally curious—after all, his mistress had never discussed this. It was not a subject most would usually associate with her, and she didn't fault such reasoning.

"Soul bonds are known to Dark Faes. They are formed whenever a Dark Fae is . . ." her words were lost on themselves for a moment, and Maleficent smirked slightly at the absurdity of she was about to say, " . . . whenever a Dark Fae finds love."

To think that she would talk about love again in her life had been target of mockery and debauchery for decades, and there she was speaking tales of love. Her hand left its place on his chest, disentangling itself from his fingers, to travel slowly and carefully to the feathers in his hair, the same kind as the ones tied to her own. She smoothed them out, the soft texture beneath her fingertips telling her they were well cared for, the light reflecting off in black, and feeling bolder, until her nails reached his skull in a light caress. She felt the skin prickle under her fingers, and a slight shiver, and a warm breathing against her face, so accelerated to the point it was very audible.

When she looked at her raven, he had his eyes closed, surrendered to her caresses, and she continued to stroke his hair as she said, "As this love grows through time, with time . . . " and her fingers again went down the long scar on his left temple, and the touch was celibate, as she feared that her claws could break the skin, " . . . the Dark Fae have their souls blessed with strength, thus expanding their power."

Diaval did not seem to register very well what was said to him considering he fell victim of unexpected, yet very welcome touches. Maleficent didn't do it on purpose—she didn't want him distracted, but she wouldn't complain about having him so surrendered to her.

When, however, his mind seemed to understand what she had said, he snapped his eyes open and looked at her in surprise.

It didn't take long form him to find a conclusion, being the bright raven he claimed to be and that she knew he was.

"Love is literal power to the Dark Fae?"

Maleficent ceased her caresses to return her hand to the middle of his chest, his heart, beating still so hard and fast. Her fingers would sneak their ways through the lances of his shirt, and the skin there pulsated, heaving up and down.

Looking at his lips, she saw them tremble, but no words left them.

"The Dark Phoenix is alive within me because of it," she continued with her tale, rather casual on her ways—she didn't remember feeling so calm in her life before—maybe it was the certainty of the soul bond, maybe it was part of being a phoenix—it didn't really matter. She was tranquillity, a little tiredness, and saw no use in being harsh as she used to be. Not with her raven.

Admittedly, she also amused herself in making him so nervous.

Call her _evil_ if you wish.

It was fun, she couldn't help it.

"Conall found me by reading it. He felt it, they all do, as the power I wield comes from the soul bond I share with—"

_"Aurora."_

It was a more than obvious conclusion, logically the only one to be found. Ultimately, who she would love besides her daughter? But no matter how fond Maleficent was to recall their child, she had to shake her head and correct him, "Soul bonds are exclusively shared between mates."

A pause watered by silence, and her raven sat there watching. He said nothing. He blinked many times, his mind running wild so comically his eyes widened in surprise and his mouth opened and closed many times. A hand cupped his cheek in a gesture of comfort. He trembled under her fingers, anxiety far greater than his poor heart could think of experiencing. Nervousness returned in all its strength and power, his breathing was so audible and he swallowed hard.

Maleficent knew it was a result of a numb mind that had been filled with too important information at once, no chance to breathe or think twice, and she tried to ease the situation by continuing to caress his face very lightly, patient in waiting for him to process what she meant. He would certainly understand that she would never be so affectionate for no reason, would he? It couldn't be so impossible to understand what she was trying to say.

"Diaval—"

He interrupted any additional words by removing her hand from his face, holding her wrist with a grip that was gentle. His eyes held many emotions, "The Dark Fae told you of this?"

His voice was usually raspy and low, very masculine, but at that moment it sounded weak and fearful.

"Udo did," Maleficent replied, "I never knew before. I couldn't have. I do it now. With the need of a glance."

Diaval said nothing to this, gaze lost on his own thoughts, and the frown on his face growing ridiculously serious, realization forming in his head, hitting slowly but with the force of lightning.

"At the arena," he tried to recall, the images from that morning still a little confusing in his mind, "The Dark Fae wanted me to duel. Insisted so much. Were surprised I refused to. Accused me of dishonour."

"Fools," he didn't look at her as she spat the words, "They know nothing."

"I couldn't have know," he repeated her words, and even though his lips trembled and his mouth was dry, he held on tight, he had to, and looked at her as he continued with trying to develop a reasoning, "About their law. They expected me to already know. And you tell me they can see—" he paused as it didn't take long for the truth to settle in his mind, and yet, it felt like too much even for him, "—they accused me of dishonouring you because they think of us as—as—as . . . "

He couldn't say it. For it seemed so absurd to him that just thinking about such words made him feel like a fool.

"Bonded."

And yet, it made _her_ more courageous, as she would no longer fight the inevitable.

"You _knew,"_ her raven continued on his wonder and surprises, and his eyes shone in hope, "You saved _me_."

The first reaction to that was fondness. The second was maybe fun as she stated again, only indirectly, "Borra is not mine."

_You are._

And in him, there was a wish to inquire more, and there no time to do so as the soul bond would emanate from him between a gigantic sense of duty, half spoon of wonder, immersed in a love wild similar to waves that never falter. Lava was his passion, liquefied by the heat of what he felt, the power to render peace with one glance.

Then, disappointment as he recalled more and more, "You told me you needn't a mate," but without malice or resentment, just wanting to clarify his resistance, "And I now you tell me—" he bit his tongue, unable to say it just as she was unable to deny that he belonged with her. But while it was the soul bond that prevented her from saying it, it was the very love in his chest that still struggled in hopes for a future. He sighed, heavily, "Can a soul bond change so much?"

It was annoying to her how his doubts had so many precedents, from her reactions to mentions of true love to actual insults and disregard to likelihood of acquiring it herself. How could he believe in her choice to be with him if not but hours ago she reacted the night before, she left him behind, not caring about his feelings at all? And it was tiring, to her dismay, to have her will so discredited.

It wasn't so difficult to understand. Dark Fae crave their partners, love was logical to them, and those who had none were so much wilder than those who did. Love leaves no place to doubt in a Dark Fae's heart. Which was an unknown concept to her, she never had others influence on what she was to do, but it wasn't as if Diaval hasn't found many ways to change her ideas over the years. It was not easy, and he often failed miserably, but she never failed to listen to his advice, even if she pretended not to be listening—he never offered them under ill intentions.

"Soul bonds cannot force feelings that are not familiar. It grants gifts. To reach what was once untouchable, thoughts once forgotten, and to see them."

"And it pleases you?" Diaval had to assure he wasn't fooling himself, and it left him euphoric to the point of open an idiotic smile, "What you see in me?" but then, memories of last night returned and his eyes turned sad and guilty, "It doesn't frighten you anymore?"

"I was surprised, not frightened," she corrected him, regretful of her actions, the way fear had caused her to lose reason and leave without further explanations, "When I came to know of you and the duel—" she couldn't finish, seeing that the flames of wrath would consume her, and so she preferred to admit a secret, "—then I was frightened. "

And secrets such as this could be received with scorn or laughter as weaknesses generally were, but Diaval did not have a cruel heart. He brought her hand to his lips and planted a kiss on the palm, reverence and gratitude for the trust placed on him, because he knew how much it cost her to be honest with others. Twenty winters shared or not, she was often reclusive, it was her very nature. Confessing to him showed that she felt safe enough to, that she saw him worthy of her words, of her feelings, and Diaval was honoured.

He wanted to elaborate jokes, a defence mechanism to melt down his anxiety, the ever nature of a raven so eager to jest with those they loved, and they normally did when talking, it was their thing, a way to ease tension, but he feared it might make her feel insecure about being so open on her feelings.

That wouldn't do. Not yet anyway.

"Are you certain?"

A pause, then a smile, the softest he ever had seen in twenty years.

"I cannot without you."

You may see I refer to the words from that fateful night, before the battle against the iron army, before her wings were returned, but with a little change.

_I can't do this without you._

Romance was never a need to her before, but a wish denied over the years, even before the betrayal.

Diaval was the one whose love she wanted. A choice, not a resort or trap. She didn't want him by her side because she wanted to take advantage of him. She didn't want him by her side to have more power. She didn't want him by her side to maintain a status of respect to her people. She wanted him for herself.

_Selfish_ perhaps, she didn't care.

"Oh."

He sounded so startled by the sincerity of it all, feelings and words, and a sigh from Maleficent went astray, so tired, "Have I ever done something I didn't want to?" she asked shortly thereafter, the sound of her lack of patience not making her raven fail in a response.

"Plenty."

The immediate counter attack was unpleasant, and she frowned at him, willing to object, and he didn't let her by explaining his answer in a rather didactic way that spoke volumes on how he indeed knew her more than she did it herself.

"First, there was the sleeping curse. You were angry, and then you regretted it. But you took time to admit it. And then Philip, you didn't like him at all; you were polite to him because of Aurora, and when she preferred to spend the day with him instead of us, you were grumpy—"

_"Concerned."_

"Concerned," he corrected himself, and there was exaggeration, "And there's the dinner with Queen Ingrith and you hate small talk—"

"This was not what I asked of you."

That had him hesitate to continue. _Don't change the subject_ , was almost added, but it ended up implied as a silence was shared by the two in an intense exchange of looks.

Diaval sighed heavily, his shoulders falling in defeat. He kissed the inside of her wrist, then her palm again, and closed his eyes as her fingers rested upon his cheek as he whispered, "I meant it when I said I don't need more. I'm happy as long as I can stay," he promised then, solemnly and more truthfully than ever in his life, perhaps they were the most important words of his life, "You don't owe anything—"

"My want is not in debt, Diaval," she said, and insisted on holding his face again and he was unable to deny her that, "Nor is my heart."

His eyes opened, "Your heart?"

Her soul in fact, but she wouldn't tell him (not yet) that she could die had anything tragic happen to him—there was no need to put more tension over his shoulders.

"Ask me, pretty bird," she suggested, and her voice dropped to a hushed tone, an admission perhaps to them both, and her eyes were lost for a moment on her own memories, "You must ask me what I want, not assume what I feel."

"I don't wish to hurt you," he confessed.

"I have no fear of that."

The raven man turned his face so his lips would plant kisses on her palm, reverent, loving, and in a way, preparing himself for her answer, "Is a mate what you wish of me?" he then asked, finally, and looked her straight in the eye, begging for a clearer answer, "Am I the one you want?"

There was a special sparkle in her eyes, something mischievous, jovial, and she smirked, "A raven servant has been quite useful," she heard a huff, discredited, and her smile widened as she spoke, "but as beautiful the raven may be," and felt him smile against her palm, "it doesn't have lips for me to kiss nor a defiant tongue to pester me to the point of madness."

In response, she saw, more than she felt, how air came out of his lungs, and his shoulders dropped with relief rather than defeat, and the tension dissolved into tranquillity, similar to when wood melts when on fire.

And fire still burned, it warmed the nest, and it warmed his feelings, but the real glow came from his eyes, that became kind, more than they already were, and even if no smile graced his lips, there was no more nervousness on his face, but serenity. All the certainty that he would be rejected, all the anguish he felt earlier that day, the dread of the battle, the pain of the spear that almost destroyed his flesh, not even the confusion at the sudden kindness of his mistress—all of that went away at once. The soul bond showed her that his heart was filled with a love that was accepted, a love that awakened an unimaginable power, the unique flame of the Phoenix, which _burned._

Above all, his love was welcome, it was well-liked, it was desired.

_Love for her._

And so, he would no longer deny himself what he always wanted.

He placed a final kiss on her palm, dropping it to rest on his chest, over his heart, so she could again feel how it beat for her. Then, cold fingers against a fine-tipped cheek, and strokes on lines of her jaw, an artisan to a gemstone. He saw emerald and topaz in her eyes, and he lost his breath again, heart leaping strong and fast.

" . . . may I?" he asked the moment his fingers slid over her red lips, and gone was the shyness, and the intensity of his voice made it very clear what his intentions were.

Maleficent wondered why he felt the need to ask, but appreciated nonetheless. She said nothing to his query, she watched in a test of resolve, a dare to be bolder and find out, to take a leap and do what he wanted. Instantaneously, he interpreted her challenge, and sat upright to too watch her in curiosity, to assure himself if indeed what he had read in her expression had been what she truly intended.

Finding a smirk similar to his own, his eyes fell to her lips, and the smirk was replaced by a look of hungry, a man thirsty for water after hours lost in a desert. It took her by surprise, despise the soul bond speaking of lust and want and love love love. Diaval never looked at her like that, without shame or restraint. He was always respectful and discrete about his will, he did not speak much of his most secret desires, so much that she was surprised to learn he was in love with her, for she never thought he nurtured anything more than friendship, perhaps admiration.

But he felt everything for her.

And it made her feel everything for him. His love aroused euphoria in a way she never believed she would be able to feel again. Giving it some thought now, she would say she never truly felt such things, because even Stefan didn't make her feel that way. He never truly loved her, his heart was never fully devoted to anything but his own ambition, there was no place for a friend, a lover, neither his own child. Whatever there was he could have felt toward her was a feeling weak enough to have lost itself against the force of time.

But Diaval . . .

He was her wings, meaning the same once said many years ago.

_"Do all the Fair People have wings?"_

Most did. Love was the rule in the Moors, sought for several reasons: procreation, lust, or simply the desire for companionship. Love made them fly, and all the other faes did. Maleficent had wings—actual wings—that would take her to places inaccessible to many. There, she would find refuge for her loneliness. But those wings were stolen from her and for years that's all she was to say about it. She would dream of them—how gigantic they felt when they enveloped her whether she felt cold or insecure, how it took almost an entire afternoon to clean them, and how vanity made of them her greatest pride.

She found a raven to replace them. He dragged behind her when she walked. He was strong—his love would carry her above the clouds and into the headwinds. He never faltered, not even once. She could trust him. He loved her. And his hands would slide down her face, holding the curve of her neck, palms stretched out and pressed against her jaw, and he seemed to forget everything he wanted to do just by looking at her, having never been able to be so close. He searched her eyes for doubt, insecurity or regret, and there he found nothing that was not a calmness of which he knew he would never be worthy.

A smile formed and then disappeared on his lips, as he was so discredited in the freedom that he was granted. He revelled in the beauty of her eyes, the softness of her skin and the temptation that was the red of her lips. He sighed, as if fascinated, and moistened his lips before leaning in and pressing them against hers.

It was a soft kiss, of brief time, barely a shy touch, a little awkward due the lack of any experience from both parts, but it was a kiss so different from the one she had once tasted on her sixteenth birthday.

Because it was not a gift from a friendship that she no longer remembered the bases of, a friendship so weak it wouldn't survive a simple test of trust. It was a kiss from a dream, of hope, a kiss that her raven would refuse himself if she so desired. Ultimately, it was an act of love so true she once thought impossible, one that would make her close her eyes and feel in a way she believed she would not allow herself anymore—forbidden any desire in relation to that, to find a new love, to let herself be loved again.

In fact, she now saw that she was never loved that way, and that she never loved a man that way. A simple kiss was able to tear down the last wall that fear had built around her heart, preventing her from seeing what was literally in front of her for so long.

It all came apart with a touch once upon a dream.

And when it was over, she found a pair of black eyes so bright and warm as the sun that made her chest heavy, filling her with more emotions than she could handle. She didn't need a soul bond to tell her that she was loved by that raven. That she was loved by her wings.

She touched his face, and saw the biggest smile of all to grace his lips. She noticed too, now so close to him, things that she had not allowed herself to notice before: how handsome he was in his human form, which from every appearance, had strong features, such as hers, and his scars disappeared as he smiled.

She stroked them with her fingertips, and closed her eyes as she felt his fingers caressing her face, the touch light as a feather, her hand resting on his wrist when he leaned his forehead to hers, and felt his passionate gaze as he whispered three words:

"I am yours."

Oh, she knew.

At last.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I lied. Sort of? Like, this chapter ends the main story, but the next one will be some sort of huge epilogue. Take it as a compilation. I promise it's almost ready. Anyway, thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Last chapter coming soon!
> 
> PS: Okay, for those who don't know, 'Maleficent' original script had her as the hybrid child of a demon and a fae. I really liked this concept and decided to explore it again, but with the twist of Maleficent's mother being human. It adds an irony to everything and helps me add some light on why Maleficent, being basically a Messiah to the Dark Fae, was only sought by them out of interest, aka, when they needed her power. Ironically enough, Dark Faes descend from a human who loved a phoenix.


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